Becoming healthier than I've ever been. Every day waking happy.
Pandering pastel starlight, feeling undeniably sensual in my own skin.
Making love to each inhale. Eating air.
Taking adult pleasure in the first foot on the floor and how erect, from the heal out the crown of my head, shoots the life force of a wise, worldly, sexual creature.
The perfect age today, again tomorrow.
No longer searching pages, attics, faces for a place. But finally...just...being this, indulging in this, lionizing this -
wide open woman in full bloom.
Happydale, MI
Lionizing
Lionizing
May 29, 2005
Happydale, MI
Wanna Grow Up
Wanna Grow Up
May 26, 2005
The wild cherry trees are in blossom, stinking up the entire back yard of the home I grew up in. I have memories of flopping around in a hammock between those trees. There was one day in particular, I recall it vividly - staring at the tops of the trees, feeling them move, watching the dance they all knew - a kind of motion communication.
These cherry trees taught me the secret language that goes on above most people's heads.
And if I have lived twenty eight summers, then I have seen it twenty eight times, but my eyeballs are shocked nonetheless, every single blink - every single open, it is as if they are seeing this color - this green - for the very first time. So saturated, so dense, and just getting started. This green could be the New World Order as far as Michigan spring is concerned.
Lilies of the Valley are precious raindrop tea cups - one lump or two, Miss Cumulous Cloud? I am instantly five years old in this back yard, on this green hill - my mommy will always be the prettiest and my daddy built this house. And travel as I do, transform as I might, grow into a woman, fall in love, Priestess Femme, I will always become little tk, spoiled with love and attention. In the driveway cement - they are mine: miniature hands. Dated and immortalized - they are mine: forever little me.
Tomorrow I will hang a hammock and eavesdrop the cherry trees.
These cherry trees taught me the secret language that goes on above most people's heads.
And if I have lived twenty eight summers, then I have seen it twenty eight times, but my eyeballs are shocked nonetheless, every single blink - every single open, it is as if they are seeing this color - this green - for the very first time. So saturated, so dense, and just getting started. This green could be the New World Order as far as Michigan spring is concerned.
Lilies of the Valley are precious raindrop tea cups - one lump or two, Miss Cumulous Cloud? I am instantly five years old in this back yard, on this green hill - my mommy will always be the prettiest and my daddy built this house. And travel as I do, transform as I might, grow into a woman, fall in love, Priestess Femme, I will always become little tk, spoiled with love and attention. In the driveway cement - they are mine: miniature hands. Dated and immortalized - they are mine: forever little me.
Tomorrow I will hang a hammock and eavesdrop the cherry trees.
Chicago, IL
Eden's Apple
Eden's Apple
May 19, 2005
It is a banana. It's not a banana. It is a banana. It's not a banana.
Warning to all my fellow raw fooders: tropical travel with ruin you forever. For after three weeks on the remote island of Dominica, only 26 miles long / 15 miles wide, I sit here now, in springtime Lincoln Park Chicago, trying to convince myself the thick-skinned-no-seed-having yellow piece of food I just paid $1 for at the coffee shoppe is indeed a banana.
It's not a banana.
The last my taste buds remember, a banana was small, sometimes bite-sized fruit, ripe only when fully brown and soft as jelly, erupting with multi-dimensional flavors - sometimes aromatically figish, sometimes undeniably hibiscus. But this...this fruit I am eating now I think is some kind of artifcial syrup pressed into an elongated phallic shape, created in a laboratory to match the taste of Runts candy - America's accepted standard for fruit taste. I am ruined forever.
How can I forget the farmer's market in Roseau (with a population of 10,000, Dominica's biggest village): I asked to taste a mango, ended up eating the entire thing, and when negotiating price for her goods, the vendor charged exactly what the earth had charged her that morning. This happened repeatadly, this gifting of fruits - handfuls of yellow island "cherries" or bundles of sugar cane stuffed in my hands. Tell me now, with generosity like this, what health food salad bar can compare in nourishment?
Or what about the roadsides, practically polluted with jelly coconuts: so available are these bowling ball sized treats, the locals commonly carry machetes for impromptu hydration breaks. So abundant are these delicious rocks in the sky, the Pirates of the Caribbean ll & lll movie hired an official coconut cutter to protect the unaware noggins of cast and crew. And so fresh and clean was the green coconut's tonic water, I fear I may never be able to stomach the over sweet and pesticide dipped Thai atrocity again.
If that wasn't enough, this equatorial paradise spoiled my palate with an array of exotic new fruits, picked right from the tree myself. Count on two hands: the consciousness altering fresh cacao pod, the feathery vanilla-like cass pod meat, the cinnimon/date flavored chapotilla, the similar-textured brown-golfball-sized tambrine fruit, and the luscious mango/pumpkin flavored mame apple (known to the locals also as "apricot"). But even the more common fruit fare in States is reduced to factory flavors when compared to Dominica's in-season watermelon and powerful pineapple. Still, by far, nothing lifted the proverbial produce veil from my eyes nor had a deeper affect on my total being than one oddly shaped, smallish spiked, iguana green fruit blob, eaten soft as a mother's breast, with pulp the color of dawn...with a texture stringy and almost transparent and as softly sweetened as heaven's iced tea...these statements might not be FDA evaluated, nor the potency of said effects legally regulated, but my personal research confirms in repeated double-blind studies, the strange sour sap is officially a dangerous aphrodisiac.
How can one go back to limp raspberries in a plastic container after that?
So I beg you, raw fooders and produce lovers alike, give up your gardens, abandon the farmer's markets and stay as far away from the southern Caribbean as possible. Leave the life of wandering and compulsive perpetual travel to those of us who have already bitten Eden's apple, dooming ourselves to a destiny of dining dissatisfaction and fatal fruit snobbery.
So until I can return to the volcanic coasts of some tropical jungle, eating precisely the way climate, season and location dictate, I shall somehow try to relish a bag of baby carrots. But as far as bananas go, this spirit is unbroken, and Dole, and their new "organic line" can kiss my Dominican pawpaw!
Warning to all my fellow raw fooders: tropical travel with ruin you forever. For after three weeks on the remote island of Dominica, only 26 miles long / 15 miles wide, I sit here now, in springtime Lincoln Park Chicago, trying to convince myself the thick-skinned-no-seed-having yellow piece of food I just paid $1 for at the coffee shoppe is indeed a banana.
It's not a banana.
The last my taste buds remember, a banana was small, sometimes bite-sized fruit, ripe only when fully brown and soft as jelly, erupting with multi-dimensional flavors - sometimes aromatically figish, sometimes undeniably hibiscus. But this...this fruit I am eating now I think is some kind of artifcial syrup pressed into an elongated phallic shape, created in a laboratory to match the taste of Runts candy - America's accepted standard for fruit taste. I am ruined forever.
How can I forget the farmer's market in Roseau (with a population of 10,000, Dominica's biggest village): I asked to taste a mango, ended up eating the entire thing, and when negotiating price for her goods, the vendor charged exactly what the earth had charged her that morning. This happened repeatadly, this gifting of fruits - handfuls of yellow island "cherries" or bundles of sugar cane stuffed in my hands. Tell me now, with generosity like this, what health food salad bar can compare in nourishment?
Or what about the roadsides, practically polluted with jelly coconuts: so available are these bowling ball sized treats, the locals commonly carry machetes for impromptu hydration breaks. So abundant are these delicious rocks in the sky, the Pirates of the Caribbean ll & lll movie hired an official coconut cutter to protect the unaware noggins of cast and crew. And so fresh and clean was the green coconut's tonic water, I fear I may never be able to stomach the over sweet and pesticide dipped Thai atrocity again.
If that wasn't enough, this equatorial paradise spoiled my palate with an array of exotic new fruits, picked right from the tree myself. Count on two hands: the consciousness altering fresh cacao pod, the feathery vanilla-like cass pod meat, the cinnimon/date flavored chapotilla, the similar-textured brown-golfball-sized tambrine fruit, and the luscious mango/pumpkin flavored mame apple (known to the locals also as "apricot"). But even the more common fruit fare in States is reduced to factory flavors when compared to Dominica's in-season watermelon and powerful pineapple. Still, by far, nothing lifted the proverbial produce veil from my eyes nor had a deeper affect on my total being than one oddly shaped, smallish spiked, iguana green fruit blob, eaten soft as a mother's breast, with pulp the color of dawn...with a texture stringy and almost transparent and as softly sweetened as heaven's iced tea...these statements might not be FDA evaluated, nor the potency of said effects legally regulated, but my personal research confirms in repeated double-blind studies, the strange sour sap is officially a dangerous aphrodisiac.
How can one go back to limp raspberries in a plastic container after that?
So I beg you, raw fooders and produce lovers alike, give up your gardens, abandon the farmer's markets and stay as far away from the southern Caribbean as possible. Leave the life of wandering and compulsive perpetual travel to those of us who have already bitten Eden's apple, dooming ourselves to a destiny of dining dissatisfaction and fatal fruit snobbery.
So until I can return to the volcanic coasts of some tropical jungle, eating precisely the way climate, season and location dictate, I shall somehow try to relish a bag of baby carrots. But as far as bananas go, this spirit is unbroken, and Dole, and their new "organic line" can kiss my Dominican pawpaw!
Roseau, Dominica
Papaya Deathbed
Papaya Deathbed
May 12, 2005
I am wondering around on foot or in my head, worshipping the wild fruit trees growing outside this apartment in Louvier. I pick a sprouted coconut from the ground - I've heard raw foodists consider them delicacies. I manhandle a bunch of bananas, only to find them unripe like the green mango ornaments decorating tropical Christmas trees on the hill. I see papaya glowing neon orange some thirty feet up, and imagine my hero like a monkey with machete, shimmying safely into the sky.
I can feel a rainbow somewhere over my shoulder.
When I arrived, I thought the southern Caribbean to be a soft climate, much like southern California. Gentle on the organism, generous with the necessities of survival, spoiling humans with vitality and abundant health. When I first met Love, I thought the same thing. But I can see now, on the faces and in the paces of the local inhabitants, indeed too in myself after a mere five months/five days, that both are anything but.
Not a hard climate like I remember Glasgow, Scotland to be with the hearty people bearing a genetic will-to-survive and readiness for struggle. Nor, the extremist climate of Chicago and its population of urban Midwesterners who learnt that communal surrender is the only way to make it through a merciless 130-degree winter-to-summer temperature swing. No, Dominica's toll on life is not a tale of personal perseverance. It is not a story of navigating ups and downs. It is much subtler, but nonetheless destructive: it is the fable of exhaustion from forceful growth.
Like a meth-head bingeing to maintain the high. Like a triathlete training all year round. Like a workaholic without hesitation accepting more overtime. Like a lover who insists on everdeeper connection each time our lips touch, everytime we make love. How can one respond to relentless climates such as this? When I reach to give more I am confronted by my self-objectification. Giving to you only what I wish you to see, creating a character I perceive worthy of affection because somewhere I doubt you will stay if I show you all sides of me, yet at the same time, knowing I won't stay if I don't.
So I look to the jungle for how I wish to be - brave in forward motion, wild with life. Forceful growth might exhaust me into an early grave, but at least I will live amongst the fruit trees. At least I will die tasting sweet papaya on the tongue.
I can feel a rainbow somewhere over my shoulder.
When I arrived, I thought the southern Caribbean to be a soft climate, much like southern California. Gentle on the organism, generous with the necessities of survival, spoiling humans with vitality and abundant health. When I first met Love, I thought the same thing. But I can see now, on the faces and in the paces of the local inhabitants, indeed too in myself after a mere five months/five days, that both are anything but.
Not a hard climate like I remember Glasgow, Scotland to be with the hearty people bearing a genetic will-to-survive and readiness for struggle. Nor, the extremist climate of Chicago and its population of urban Midwesterners who learnt that communal surrender is the only way to make it through a merciless 130-degree winter-to-summer temperature swing. No, Dominica's toll on life is not a tale of personal perseverance. It is not a story of navigating ups and downs. It is much subtler, but nonetheless destructive: it is the fable of exhaustion from forceful growth.
Like a meth-head bingeing to maintain the high. Like a triathlete training all year round. Like a workaholic without hesitation accepting more overtime. Like a lover who insists on everdeeper connection each time our lips touch, everytime we make love. How can one respond to relentless climates such as this? When I reach to give more I am confronted by my self-objectification. Giving to you only what I wish you to see, creating a character I perceive worthy of affection because somewhere I doubt you will stay if I show you all sides of me, yet at the same time, knowing I won't stay if I don't.
So I look to the jungle for how I wish to be - brave in forward motion, wild with life. Forceful growth might exhaust me into an early grave, but at least I will live amongst the fruit trees. At least I will die tasting sweet papaya on the tongue.
Dominica, Caribbean
New Ambition
New Ambition
May 09, 2005
I lift the glass of warm Martinique Merlot to my nose and inhale with every fold of my soft lungs. The esters fill whatever spot it is in my mind that dreams, with material for another creative slumber. So completely inebriated with it’s dark otherworldly aroma am I, I sit the glass down without even taking a sip.
It the most difficult of exercises, this being in the moment. To take the time to smell a drink so completely that the entire subconscious is saturated, the whole body mirrors the scent’s attributes, that the observer and the observed become indistinguishable. Or to look, actually look into the eyes of the person speaking to you. What color were the eyes of the last person you connected with?
As I set the glass back onto the table, indeed without even one sip, the tropical nite breeze blows through my tissue paper-thin shirt and one of my new friends, a costumer here on the set of Pirates of the Caribbean 2, skips over the chit chat and asks me directly, "What do you want to do in life?" A piercing, timely, and utterly welcome inquery, for the responding to which will demand personal growth, no matter how many times answered.
You know, I worked my dream gig, STOMP. And it really was everything I hoped it would be. But what then? What, when at 28 you've gotten to do what it was you always dreamed of doing in your career – how ambitious are you to book the next gig? And what when you happen to be one of those people not fascinated by money – how driven are you to get a job just for the accumulation of paper tickets? I amuse myself with the confidence of my simple, but difficult response, "What I really want is to travel, dance, and be in love".
This time I raise the glass to my lips and take in just enough of the dry, yet somehow sweet, intoxicating dream, as we all slowly silently nod our heads. It seems funny to me how we spend our lives taking classes on marketing, researching the internet on how to build a better machine, and reading books on aromatherapy. But how many of us are really out there seeking wisdom in that one thing we all, from the Caribbean to Huntington Beach, truly desire more than anything else - possibly the entire purpose of these fragile mortal bodies, the celebration of and meaning of existence wrapped into one religion-defying, government-disintegrating, illusion-shattering experience: love. We live our lives as if it were owed to us, but perhaps we should till the soil, prime the canvas, and become the site where such things are likely to happen. Perhaps it is time to become an expert in love.
I am on the island of Dominica, dancing every day and visiting a man whom is working on the Pirates movie. There are 75,000 locals on this island, all of whom seem to be much more educated in life loving than most of the people I meet at auditions or in dance class in southern California. Whether it be the oppressive heat, the comparatively unstructured system, or all the exotic tropical fruits, I, too, am slowing down and making it important to practice that simple, but most difficult of exercises: being in the moment – the only research an expert really requires…
When he stepped off the boat, returning from another 16 hour day at work, my lover's eyes were brown. When he pressed his angelic lips against mine before the sun rose this morning,
his eyes were brown again.
It the most difficult of exercises, this being in the moment. To take the time to smell a drink so completely that the entire subconscious is saturated, the whole body mirrors the scent’s attributes, that the observer and the observed become indistinguishable. Or to look, actually look into the eyes of the person speaking to you. What color were the eyes of the last person you connected with?
As I set the glass back onto the table, indeed without even one sip, the tropical nite breeze blows through my tissue paper-thin shirt and one of my new friends, a costumer here on the set of Pirates of the Caribbean 2, skips over the chit chat and asks me directly, "What do you want to do in life?" A piercing, timely, and utterly welcome inquery, for the responding to which will demand personal growth, no matter how many times answered.
You know, I worked my dream gig, STOMP. And it really was everything I hoped it would be. But what then? What, when at 28 you've gotten to do what it was you always dreamed of doing in your career – how ambitious are you to book the next gig? And what when you happen to be one of those people not fascinated by money – how driven are you to get a job just for the accumulation of paper tickets? I amuse myself with the confidence of my simple, but difficult response, "What I really want is to travel, dance, and be in love".
This time I raise the glass to my lips and take in just enough of the dry, yet somehow sweet, intoxicating dream, as we all slowly silently nod our heads. It seems funny to me how we spend our lives taking classes on marketing, researching the internet on how to build a better machine, and reading books on aromatherapy. But how many of us are really out there seeking wisdom in that one thing we all, from the Caribbean to Huntington Beach, truly desire more than anything else - possibly the entire purpose of these fragile mortal bodies, the celebration of and meaning of existence wrapped into one religion-defying, government-disintegrating, illusion-shattering experience: love. We live our lives as if it were owed to us, but perhaps we should till the soil, prime the canvas, and become the site where such things are likely to happen. Perhaps it is time to become an expert in love.
I am on the island of Dominica, dancing every day and visiting a man whom is working on the Pirates movie. There are 75,000 locals on this island, all of whom seem to be much more educated in life loving than most of the people I meet at auditions or in dance class in southern California. Whether it be the oppressive heat, the comparatively unstructured system, or all the exotic tropical fruits, I, too, am slowing down and making it important to practice that simple, but most difficult of exercises: being in the moment – the only research an expert really requires…
When he stepped off the boat, returning from another 16 hour day at work, my lover's eyes were brown. When he pressed his angelic lips against mine before the sun rose this morning,
his eyes were brown again.
