I'll wait for you. [Will you wait for me too?]

I always have art on my hands

My friend Mitch took this photo when he was in town last month. This is how I spend the majority of my days - drawing, painting, sewing: making 'fashion' happen. I think this is the most honest photo anyone has ever taken of me. I have been really blessed to have been living on the 3rd floor of a house in Brooklyn, with 2 bedrooms, and an office that I've turned in to my "art studio" [aka - the one place to confine all the mess I make]. Unfortunately I am having to move out next week [my renters have friends coming from overseas]. This has been my art studio since January, and I have certainly made a bloody mess of it.

Check out more of Mitchell Wojcik's photographs at http://mitchellwojcik.com/

i've known it from the moment that we met, no doubt in my mind where you belong.

I could hold you for a million years, to make you feel my love.

Coming to a closet near you.

Freedom is what you've done, with what has been done to you.

There's a house for sale. An old woman still lives there. She's dying inside. And her children are already selling her things. And it's sad. Not because "things" matter, but because the old woman doesn't know it's happening, and all she feels is pain, and nostalgia, but she's not sure for what because she can't remember anymore. She doesn't remember the names of her children anymore either, or what is so special, or not so special, about all the "things" that they are selling to strangers who keep coming to the house. She doesn't even know that these people are strangers, because her children are strangers to her now too, so it doesn't really make a difference. All she knows is that there are faces: some the same, some different, she can't remember their names, or if she's seen them before - they all seem new, so it doesn't really matter who they are, or what their names are, or where they came from, or if they are her children, because in two minutes she won't remember anyways. And it's sad. Not because she can't remember, but because her children have grown apathetic, and never bother to explain to their mother what is going on, or why she is in pain, or why she is loosing her hair -or what hair is for that matter- and why her hands no longer look like her own, and why they don't want to work like they use to. All she knows is there's an old woman in a house [it is her house, but she doesn't remember that], laying in a bed [it's her bed, but she doesn't remember that], wearing a stained nightgown [it is her nightgown, but she does not remember that either], this old woman has taken her hostage and is hurting her, and no one will explain -that this woman, is her.

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

Mathematics assume the model is correct

There's a man, he's riding the C-train, headed downtown toward Brooklyn, after a long day playing with numbers on the upper west side. He's reading a book, about consciousness and metaphysics, and all that crap that seems to be oddly trendy right now in New York City, and other cities where it's never quiet outside, and even harder to keep quiet inside. He looks like he's reading this book, but he's really thinking about how much he hates his job, and misses his family, and feels guilty for never being present. Even when he takes them on vacations to places where the skies are blue and the air is moist, and you can breathe real deep, he's still doing work, or thinking about work, and numbers and money, or on his computer, or phone, answering emails about numbers. He's there on the beach, his family is playing at the shore line, they are laughing, they are calling his name and he doesn't hear them. He's never present. He's always playing with those numbers in his head, instead of playing with his children. And even when he is playing with his children he's still playing with numbers in his head. He doesn't hear them calling. His eyes are scanning those words on the page, he looks like he's reading, but he's really just seeing family portraits, and he's not in them, and no one is smiling, and his wife is sleeping with another man, and he convinces himself it is okay, because he feels guilty, but he misses her, he misses them, he misses who he use to be, but now he's just another number riding downtown.

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

SOS

Hi Beth,

I spoke with a friend of mine who was diagnosed with fibro too, she gave me some really inspiring advice. I feel hopeful, but she says I need to be patient with myself - and that is very difficult for me, because I always expect greatness, and most days "greatnss" consists of getting out of bed and brushing my hair and actually making it to classes. She's rather spiritual, and she helped me realize that this is just a time to "learn," and a reminder to be silent and slow down and "work on my heart." I've always tried to avoid feeling pain, physical or emotional, I've always had a way to numb it - with my eating disorder, or a busy schedule, or being medicated... but with physical pain like this, I can't avoid it. It's a reminder that I have to feel, I can not numb this. She said something that keeps repeating in my head, cause it is exactly how I feel "It's like a loose rat finding new parts of my body to torture." It makes me acknowledge all the things that are both physically and emotionally painful... and the physical pain makes everything emotional seem so much more painful as well. It's such a trap. I feel trapped. There are knots inside of me, dozens, hundreds, thousands, both big and small, knotted so tightly around each other, and I feel like my fingers are just fumbling numbly to undo the mess, but they're so tangled, and my fingers are so tired and are always the wrong size for the knot they are working on, and I need patience, and I need to focus on one knot at a time, and then maybe it will free up the opportunity to undo another knot, but maybe it won't, and maybe if I work too aggressively I'll just create another mess of knots and pain that'll bury the rest of them deeper... - kind of like a tangle of necklaces in a jewelry box. That is how my insides feel.

-Ali

everything is a cycle

all of his new girls.

they all look like she did.

back then.

back when she was sick.

back when she lay dead.

in the garden.

with the roses.

with one hand on her mouth.

and one hand on her heart.

It's, Partyyyyy Time!

Brand identity

I use to criticize myself for wanting to make "pretty things," but I'm starting to think it is "a-okay." Our World needs beauty to bring it out of the darkness; to escape the ugliness and suffering of the human condition. Beauty is not just something of an artist's fantasy and imagination, it is already a part of the reality we all share. Peace : war, love : hate, beauty : ugliness- we experience all particles within the whole... Our quantum self, experiencing four dimensions of consciousness, is interdependent on all things (seen & unseen, present and not present) - if the potential energy exists in the imagination, then it too exists in reality.

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

Spring of 2012

If you have any sort of imagination: imagine yourself there.

Its all in the tea leaves

Dear Daewoo,
Not knowing where you ran off to, not knowing if I am near or far makes me miss you even more than the time we were at polar opposites of the globe. Its the not knowing that distracts me the most. I'm always writing scenarios of new adventures you could be on in my notebooks, illustrating them with shaking sketches on my morning commute. But it's the memories of you and I in these streets that follow me home on lonely walks from the train on the coldest of nights, when I'm the only person for miles on Fulton. I keep seeing you in the faces of strangers in passing cars, head down in a book, or laughing with a pretty girl, or falling asleep on an unknown shoulder... I'm projecting you all around this town, in the memories I'm making on my own. It's your ghost who practices French with me on the third floor of the Bauhaus museum I'm living in with the Swiss couple. We practice American words "the French way" when we speak with our friends, like "coleur, and patronage, and cinema," they seem to be an inside joke between our lips. Reminding us of the months we spent in Paris studying art, and fashion, and food, and our love for one another. Oh Daewoo, if you're listening, send me the word.
From my lips to your chamomile sips,
BLB 1544

Posted from Blogium for iPhone

What is forever, anyhow?

Dear Daewoo,

It's been so long since our last correspondence, please dont think i have forgotten about those passionate weeks we spent together. Its just that i caught myself getting too caught up in you and the fantastic and the dreams and the adventures, and i was living in the letters and forgetting to live in the outside world. But, you are still on my mind daily, in my heart forever (and from what ive hear, forever is a long time!) you especially come to the forefront of my mind on those nights I can't master the science of sleep. Ill find myself driving from one side of the state to the other, cause when I can't sleep, and the highways are empty, I like to race to the edge of the horizon line, to finally meet my childhood friend Mr. Moon on the soft spot at the apron of my Mother's driveway (did i ever tell you about Mr. Moon? It is a quite endearing story to hear!), where the cement has cracked from our seasonal weather, dissolving back into original elements, sinking into the place we stole it from. I'm laying at the edge of my childhood home, my face in the sky, my eyes jumping like the stars seem to do when you stare at them too long. Im acknowledging all the constellations above me, letting my imagination play connect the dots with the ones i dont know (kind of like you use to play connect the dots with the freckles on my lower back). I never got to see the sky clearly like this in the city, Not with all the dirtiness: the pollution, and smog, and light (you always said u missed the dark skies of your travels, you hated the city lights so much.)- so to see these light fire balls burning through time to awaken in me this familiar place, feels "special." (special like the time you rescued me from those crook pirates when we sailed through the polynesians, after we recovered the lost journals of your late brother in Atiu) Oh my dear Daewoo, In the midwestern darkness sometimes it feels like you're laying next to me - even though you've never been to this part of the country- and in the singular moment the universe seems to exhale our thoughts simutaneously collide beneath a transparent blanket of stars, and dust, and space junk, and time, and consciousness, and love. Its so infinite, you see? The answers to all the things i struggle to understand about myself, the things that keep me from sleeping, that follow me to my driveway on my night drives, a whole lot of things I never understood seem to be OUT THERE! but from what I heard, it's all "in here" (as in us) too. Soo maybe it's all less complicated than I make it out to be in my head, (you did always laugh at me for making things so damn complicated on myself...), Maybe all this space and time and cracked pavement and inability to forget (you) is really just as simple as the handful of times our parallel lines crossed, those handful of nights we spent wrapped in the blanket of a singular night sky. My darling, my love, my Daewoo, I will count the stars until our love dissolves back, like the sand beneath our feet, into the oceans, where it came from and where it belongs.
Speak to the stars, I will be listening,
BLB 1544

Posted from Blogium for iPhone