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Posts Tagged ‘photography’

The strangeness of days. The lopsided magic that elbows you from the sidelines. You hold your ribs, shaking your head. It happens. “Did that really happen?” You’ll say,cued up, but you’ll know. YES.
Eye-rubber, head-scratcher days. Where synchronicities pip, pop, pap and you watch. You know something is right- for you at least- in some way- but what an unorthodox display.
When moments and days segue and transcend perfectly into the next. The foreshadowing-of-strange-life-events feature revving.
As we grow, we become more aware- hopefully of the simple one door closed/ another opened equation. It’s genuine application. It’s mystery promise.
Go on, slap your normativity across the face with a wind up and see what comes. It might be giant. A slow giant, with watchful eye’s yet sloth-like timing. Like a continental drift. Before you know it you’re on the other side of the equator. Eating the same cereal all the while.
It’s moves like this that occur when you were sleeping. Be it literally or physically. Suddenly you might be 35 years old, in a kitchen that’s giving up the battle of white walls, a long and scratchy-floored corridor, old mouldings, access to the roof where you’ll take in first-of-morning moments, big ol’ bay windows at your head where you do your best to rest under your prized Pendleton.
Maybe you’ll have gone to a show 2 nights ago that you were looking forward to. One who’s performer you had seen before, who’s lyrics inspired and tickled you; a voice so soft you wanted to make slippers out of it. And maybe that show turned out to be an absolute flop- mimicking a pitiful freshmen art school project on staccato affects on the audience, and an undeterminable counterpart person on stage to remain turning potentially purposeless knobs and staring, full face into the eyes of your singing sweety who would soon melt before you as a bore. And maybe they would remain, staring and staring some more into each other’s eyes, ignoring the crowd at large, and whispering near the microphone; said counterpart looking plain Jane, but when the light hit her just right somehow Alice Cooper would emerge. Sans light tricks. Just a disco ball 20 some odd feet above. Let’s just say. And you told your friends. And the Alice Cooper thing was just undeniable and so-fucking-trippy and it kept happening. A devil woman!
And then you’re in this place, devising a get away plan, when the show ends early anyway, and you decide “Oh how nice, I shall ride my bike home and retire to bed quite early, making up for lack of sleep. How divine”, or something to that effect.
Home you go. Sleep you do. Until 3:37am when bullets ring out. Maybe 6 maybe 7 you can’t be sure because waking up with jolts and orientation isn’t your strong suit. And then a man wailing begins. And you call the police, and you go to the living room and you watch the man writhing on the sidewalk, 1 story below and about 7 yards from your building and punctured with bullets, and you; helpless in your robe, holding your mouth and wishing for a hug. Reevaluating the definition of loneliness.
Cops come after not too long and your eyes won’t budge until you forcibly pull yourself back to bed with silver brown black red sparks jittering your spinal column, heavying the pit of your back and lay there as the police commence taking witness testimonies right below your bedroom window until 6:50am.
And then your day has begun with sleep being a lost design, and you are nothing more than shot with rubber-band-brain thoughts continually slinging back to the sounds of what is to be a man the most alone in the world when consolation is the most important. And-oh-the-humanity.
And big baby, suck it up because you’re in the city now and it’s time to get tough and cut the gasps.
And then the day passes until the moment where you return home from the long-ass work day, to unwind with your pup-beast-filthy-love-animal-dog, and you go a walkin’ and a talkin'(on the phone), and as you round the dark corner, you emit a silent scream because… a gun! On the pavement. Too much. Your friend awaits on the other side of the phone afraid and waiting to be informed, as you realize- it’s not so much a gun as an abnormally large and angular shaped, 90 degree turd, in the perfect shape of a big big revolver. And you release in laughter and your friend remarks “I don’t know which is worse”, as your dog has begun to help himself to perimeterless snack, so you tell her what’s worse. And you know you have discovered a whole new level of turd burglar.
The continuous line, having been so for a while now; curious, unpredictable, colorful, undeniable. It’s the strangeness of days, when you as the observer skirt harm, eyes alert and concerned, yet an energy of still and constant, if not necessarily detached- lightness of being. Atypical stage. The comedy, the tragedy, roller coaster magic, continuos turn. Wheel gears gripping and moving forward as we ride. It’s all happening.
IMG_0483

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So here you are. You picked up and you moved. Finally. You finally moved- (Good job.)
Something you’ve been talking about for a thank-goodness-noone’s-counting long of time. Three years? Four? Enough time for change to brew to the point of the bubble over. So you ride out in the cascade, thinking of the times where you were so detached from holds and your spirit was far freer, though before you left, feeling tied-down you did not. You just felt… cozy. Comfy. Copacetic. And it’s those C words that can be dangerous.
Because that’s no place to stand.
So you took off in the name of new C words, like new conquests. Like crazy. Like can’t stop won’t stop. And it can all just be so fun. If only you let it. And if only you can conceive of it. Or perhaps just let. it. go.
So you done gave it all up. The pretty house. The fun & loving social circle. The sweet man. The main income sources. In the name of…?
And you’re not quite sure, when people ask you this every-day-question, of quite how to respond to it. The answer varying, dependent on mood, on weather, on wind velocity, or based upon the most recent strangers’ interaction. All in all it is hardly surmisable.
It is the untouchable. And it takes focus to remember that not all is to come with a black and white outline. And it is to show that sometimes you gotta pull that thread from the old sweater. Perhaps those tired sleeves’ll fall off. Or it’ll just keep going until your left with a new ball of yarn. And you can be kind and donate it to the kitten company, bringing them a smile to wiggle their whiskers. Or you can go yarn-bomb the town.
And that’s California, man. The land of possibility.
The golden state, for it’s expanse, and so-many-subcultures, museums & eateries, everywhere art & art galleries & feral or lawful graffiti, mania, excitement; native pride & alcatraz take over; animal parades & freaky carnivals, pop-up-shows, seedy establishments, fresh-fortune cookies, raw struggle & swollen riches, lawlessness, confusion, and contagion, and on on on.
And ocean.
And green; for dripping night-blooming-datura plants; massive, shedding, fragrant eucalyptus, girthy taproot, secure base; established, luscious thick, envious jades; swishy, flirting-with-blocking-the-moon-palms; nooks and crannies: a dream for sleepy monkeys if only one would escape it’s captivity, or the ideal habitat for weary squatter and mangey pooch.
And brown; for trash upon trash in the city parks, don’t-drop-your-keys-in-the-gutter-because-how-dirty-streets; filthy, creepy alleyways where you must pretend not to have a smart phone or sucker you might be; curbside furniture left for days, covered in soot; mysterious weaves on the ground; white bums with black hands.
You might not have realized how grimy it could be. And how distracting, to boot.
But that’s ok- it’s your renaissance.
On your time. And you made it.
You are in charge of celebrations.

Viva su revolucion!

photo 2

photo 1

instagram.com/mermada_en_piephoto 3photo 5

 

photo 1 photo 5photo 3

photo 4

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Can I ask you some questions? Would you be so kind as to take a moment to reflect for me? It’s about you. It’s for me… well, for now. But I have ideas OF COURSE. So if you prefer, you can answer anonymously. You can even have my personal email: thelighteningcan@gmail.com and I will respect your privacy when I reiterate. Though, I don’t think you’ll be feeling too exposed when you get right down to it.
I want to know 3 things.

  1. What makes you unique?
  2. What makes you special?
  3. What makes you fortunate?

I have answered these questions with my own brain to provide a template of depth I hope to find, verses some topical answer. Answer in one part, two parts, three parts… whatever. Get loose with it!

Baby L (me)

  1. What makes you unique?

a. Often- I’ll see people that seemed deeply embroiled in a heavy make out session, all intertwined and public. Then upon further inspection it turns out that it is in fact just one, solitary obese person.
b. A new vocabulary word that I have never used before will be on the tip of my brain upon wake, awaiting its debut in my conversations perhaps.
c. I dream about water bodies in some capacity every night.

  1. What makes you special?

I care deeply for justice and work towards it in some way almost every day. I have wired my life around it.

  1. What makes you fortunate?

a. I am fortunate because I have creative, tireless brain that when on the right trajectory has the capacity to produce beeeaaauuuty! And crazy drive. I am constantly getting new, cool ideas for art on a larger scale. I’ve always been dipped in some form of self-expression.
b. Also, I have parents that have been supportive of my zany ways that differ so strongly from their approach at life. We love each other.
c. I have a beautiful house and beautiful friends.
d. I’ve been granted with an overall positive disposition.
e. I consider myself pretty self-aware and am always striving to be my best self.
f. I got rhythm for days and I ain’t afraid of no dancefloor!

So there it is. Spice it up/ break it down. I’m listening. Sock it to me (((please!!)))!

play this

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I like the stories that tell of cotton trees. With free balloons’ held temporarily in branches. Where a kid cries below because their favorite yellow floated off too far. Where the breeze smells like a feeling. And feelings trigger childhood memories and swampy geese that push through thick algae, and fat locusts that blindly buzz. Where little boys did unspeakable things to lightening bugs and little girls protested. Where the lightening bugs were a plenty. Where lightening bugs called in the dusk. Where the dusk was met by the tippiest-tips of the willow trees, tickling the new-now shade sky.

I like the stories where strangers stand pigeon toed, unaware of spectators. Where their petticoats carry a mystery-feather from someone else’s journey. Where their shoes aren’t as shiny as they imagined them to be. Where they are perfectly imperfect. Where they can be used as innocent templates to ad-lib, never knowing their role in a passerbye’s made-up-tale.

The stories where markers squeak across train cars windows and lovers names are written up and crossed out with dizzying repetition, and for-a-good-times’ are scrolled liberally. Where teens smoke angel dust between the cabooses and get hyped on the Beasties. Get hyped on tunnel wonderment. Get hyped on honeys’ hi-tops.

I like stories where people make metaphors out of toast, or the common area, time travel, violins, or maybe the color grey. Stories full of description dripping. The ones bordering tangibility. Where the writer held nothing back. Where transparency is the best; the only choice.

The stories where I am surprise-kissed in the rain, in the middle of some city park while we casually walk through.

The stories that spark late night scramble drawings. Where palms get inky and paper, promised to words. Tattooed to its’ truth.

Can I ask for your allness? Is too soon such a thing? If I died tomorrow it would be a shame. So speak please, like wild horses. Free. Like a passing condor. With white magic. Not like a stegosaurus. No. Don’t be too late.

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It was one of those break ups that leaves you a bag of bones. An empty vessel of a person, where all you get to be is mash up of organs working lethargically & only because they have to, long & stretched paled skin, sad mush brain, empty tired eyes, charred flaccid  heart… The kind of sadness remediable by one thing and one thing only. One golden word: vacation.

So, Mexico, eh? $400 some odd bucks to get myself from the dreary rainy season that wrapped itself with prodding, icy fingers around and throughout the town that my ex and I shared that felt frighteningly small? Oh God- yes, please.

So a plane. And then some wayward nights spent in a few different places. Increasing fun. Throw in some new travel friends. Sprinkle some hitchhiking adventures in. Put me on a beach with my home girl in the middle of a stashy surf hub, full of sun-kissed surfer-boy babes and feed me a couple of drinks and you got yourself a real good story on ze boiler.

caracol

I shook my ass. I let my hair down. Real Julia Roberts kinda stuff. I was holding that. If I had to wear a neon sign reflecting my mind-heart-soul state- surely it would have flicker-buzzed that tricky, multi layered word: Healing. And with the all-too-common recklessness that accompanies a proper heartbreak, I got mine.

And I met Ernesto. His tall shadow across the sand taking over my memory. His flash of black curls. Big, knowing hands. Sexy swagger. Of calculated movement. Eyes open. He had game & was connected. He was street. He was bad. So good bad. He was in a gang… I did not realize what this meant. Either way he was very yummy. I liked him, though I was on vacation- don’t forget. So naturally I dispersed my time in many different ways…

And so Ben. Another local. A lone-wolf surfer. Compact body carved by the ocean. A total romantic. Dark & deep… In a rival gang. Who knew? And I thought he yummy too.

And so haay rebound. And so you go girl n’ shit. Allathat. And ride that wave until it crashes & lord watch for the shore.

My time with Ben turned out to be probably just four intense days together before he was convinced that he was in a painful kind of love with me, which I found quickly terrifying. He went off the deep end when I cut him off, the little bit of what we had. I’m not qualified to diagnose, but still maintain that homie was certifiably crazy, & I pity the woman who may very well be stuck with him somehow at this point of life. Needless to say I spent long days after avoiding him, which was no easy task, as there were only a handful of places where the nightlife action was. I just wasn’t ready to leave.

Truth of the matter is that either of the hes’ are not what or whom I think of when I think of the week & change spent in this spot. This little beach town- a town that healed me, gave me love, restored my spine, provided amazing times, helped me develop a shining (over) appreciation for tequila… I think not of that so much. I think of one night where the boomerang effect hit me smack in the face.

zapateca

It was another night music & friends & Ernesto. Another night of avoiding poor Ben. Another night with the perfect salty air enveloping me and putting me in tropical trance… The way that breeze skimmed across my skin… I found myself on a rooftop bar where people were dancing & drinking. This is where memory & accuracy begin to get muddy. I remember free flowing, generous mezcal shots. I remember feeling annoyed that I had to keep running away from someone who wanted to work out nothing workable. I remember needing a cigarette & asking some local guy if I could have one. I thoughtlessly asked him for one in Spanish but instead of responding to me saying a simple yes or no, he chose the unscripted option of inquiring aggressively in English about where I was from. When I responded, slightly taken aback- about being from the states, he got up in my face, pointing his stranger hand right up in to my nose, to say the following: “You are from the United States and you are asking ME for a cigarette?!” And then, whilst furiously shaking: “FUCK YOUUU. FUCK YOUUUUU.” And on and on and on, with this weird stupid finger in my face, fuck youing me to pieces, backing me up until I was smashed up against the side of the building, with his terrible, angry, misdirected, spittle-maker-face against mine. And I blacked out. And did I hit him? Push? Did he push me? I’m not sure because don’t give me tequila & yell at me for your hang ups. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the floor but getting pulled back by two or Ernesto’s boys, while others from his crew swoop in on this guy and remorselessly remove him from my sight, pushing him down the stairs, taking him out the building, far out of my sight or anything I would ever know more of.

I remember yelling because I was shocked & drunk. Yelling because I was bugged out & confused. Yelling yelling yelling in English because I’m more used to speaking English now. Who knows what was conveyed, & I was being held back by these guys, & then there is sad, crazy head Ben with his boys, in my face- from where anyway? And now would there be a rumble? Ben- telling me to calm down and trying to hug me & drunk drunk drunk me, no memory.

I know I ran. I ran I ran I did not stop until I had to because I contained breath no more. I had run to the beach, ignoring peoples warnings against going alone to at night for various unheard, far-from-convenience-reasons, but reckless & still somewhat broken, I did not care. I needed ocean solace. I ran onto the sand & I melted. I cried cried cried cried. For more than that night or the moments of shit roof. I cried out of frustration for Ben; cried for loss of my boyfriend & how the fracture was my irreparable fault; cried for fear of/for that merciless seeming roof guy who was so angry at me who was nobody to him, & how much bitterness one must carry to hate strangers. Plump drunk dehydrating tears, bent over, standing in a loosey goosey forward fold, until I felt a sudden excruciating pain grip my legs & run up the length of my body faster than lightening. Tsunami faster. I felt like I was dry brush on fire, the flames licking me, twist biting at my skin- everything terrible. Fire ants. I had chosen my melt down spot to be perfectly situated atop a hill of fire ants. Hysterical now, in retrospect. Just perfect. But holy did they hurt so unbelievably bad. With out thought or alternative I found myself bolting-same-time-stripping soon-to-be-diving into black night ocean.

By morning the bites no longer bothered me. At least my memory does not hold that. I don’t even remember how I saw Ernesto, but I know that when I did see him, did ask him about what happened to the man from the roof, his eyes serious & fast- told me never to ask about him again. Impenetrable. I remember feeling Latino 90210 town on steroids. Tired. Drama lama ding dong.

I was done. Full. I’d had enough. My heart had been restored. I’d filled in the gaps between my vitals. The blood coursing through me- purified a la beach mode, despite the maybe murder… Ready to go home.

viva mexico

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Crazy West coasters,

Putting Ranch on everything-

Shaming your pizzas.

 

Filled to the brim, I’m

fit and tied to team over

with proper fodder.

 

When the petals fall

on my head and in my hair,

that’s where I want them.

 

Is there a better

marriage of words than FUCKING

LOVELY? I think not.

 

party car(ty)

 

We must reclaim the

word constipation. Has

untapped potential.

 

Riding my bike brings

peace to all the right places.

What a love machine.

 

Sometimes you got it,

sometimes you don’t, but don’t fret.

Can’t all be like me.

 

Talk to me only

in minor chords. Sullen speak

goes right to my core.

 

There are no boxes

that can contain me. I’m an

irregular piece.

 

neca

 

They need a contract

making antiperspirant

mandated at gyms.

 

Somnambulant is

my new vocabulary

word. I woke up with it.

 

Just wait, icicle

Don’t pierce my heart before

I melt my own way.

 

You’re not a true friend

If I look in the mirror

to find spinach tooth.

 

Pavlovian proof-

I hunger at sitar sounds

for good Tandori.

 

One day I’ll travel

the world in the name of sweet

poetry. Just wait.

 

When it rains it pours

and your still my favorite

puddle to jump in.

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I want to choke on my own words. Wavering and stuttering: not an option.
I want the full. The full frontal. The wham-bam.
I want crash course.

Come to me, speak to me, remind me of my contents. The fierce part.
And my sacred ability to express my scars, and wonder-wander constellations of light year stars, byproducts of being too-late too-long at bars, slow-blinker-for-ever-shit-drivers in cars…
I’ll take it.
Drunk ramblings.

Distracted in the door jam I’m waiting for the some revival jolt.
So kick my legs out and have me begging for a way to say what  my mouth hasn’t known yet.

A person can walk around feeling freed of emotions like shaker salt peppering them out liberally, honestly. You can even spread your feeble gosple, no? But it turns out that determination can’t be told between apples and oranges with out a palpable type result. Just when you thought the truth was self evident. Damn it, George.

Tell me how can you speak so frivolously about your heart mind? How can your cards show like that? Like low low low.
Was I taught to hide? There’s so much work to do. To mend oration. And delight in bent diction.
My words they tumbled but sang dust-wind as they did so, and it seems that’s all was heard, and now I understand the song well better.
Laugh; be mad; be merry.

Be alivest!
Turn lights on, convulse, define.

Daytime mimicry moderation
and
faux sun.
Pale. Silly, bright you. Glow.
Shine fully for so I don’t slip banana-peel-optimism, sweet-tooth-cheer, cavity, crack me with your smile. I’ll take it all. Reverse purge.
Curses, blessings, mundane prayer power.–
The calmest mind gets to rest and you know that’s not why I am here.

pud

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