Tell Ya Later

The first time I come to Tel Aviv is by airplane. The next, by bike..
I ride out of Nurit and Shay's street past the Cub Scout's nest and down a big road. A quarter mile or so down the road there is a power tower ride called the Black Mamba. Its the night before school begins and i can hear children screaming, laughing. I ride for 20 minutes or so along the motorway on the bike paths. Six lanes of traffic on one side, parks and soccer fields on the other. I see the big smoke stack that marks the start of the city of Tel Aviv, and take a right. its early, seven at night, and many businesses are open. The streets are busy. Its hard to tell what part of town I'm in. There are highscale dressmakers next to flourescent-lit diners. The sidewalks are filthy, spotted flagstones, but the wooden benches are brand new. I pass a dog stylist, then a hair stylist, then a laundromat so full and cluttered it seems to be the very mouth of hell. The city is lit with warm yellow lamps. My hair is salty from catching waves in you guessed it- the mediterranean sea.Its getting plentry dark already, cos we're in the equatorial zone. I'm 8,000 miles from home and as happy as clams.

this week

a few things to accomplish this week:
make 3 masks for the craft fair.
make stuff with eddy k
make a conscious effort to be calm and peaceful
return library books due tuesday
talk to some new folks
sign up for ceramics class
get a volunteer shift at the bridge or district 202
rearrange room
write to yolanda
in fact, write everyday, a little bit.
do a sun salutation everyday
breathe well
put a new chain on yee olde bicycle

sisterfiction

i wrote this a couple weeks ago for Emma on her 11th birthday, enjoy...

Once there lived two sisters twelve years apart in age. They were tall blue-eyed beasties with, more often than not, dirty feet and large smiles. Their enormous grins were both a blessing and a curse, for while their pearly chompers drew people toward them, they also sometimes revealed that they had recently been eating spinach, or pulled pork, or pineapples. This was a small burden, and the sisters rose above it gracefully.
In fact, one afternoon, at an R Picnic,
(Where all the foods began with the letter R), the sisters rose so high above the smattering of comments regarding a smidge of radicchio here and a morsel of romaine stuck there, that they fully levitated off the red picnic blanket and shot straight up into the ether.
The older sister gazed at the picnic attendees—a hodge-podge of local eccentrics, a few wing nuts, and a judge and doula for good measure- as they sank into the distance, and she sighed, “Mad Pierre was on the absolute verge of serving me some of his roasted rabbit. Wonder if they’ll save us some.”
The younger sister wondered if they would ever be in any condition to consume gamey carbons again, for their celestial ascent had begun to quicken headily. First their shoes dissolved, in a slightly ticklish, caressing fashion. Then their hair rolled out of the tight braids they had put them in before preparing ratatouille that morning. The younger one giggled, “I swear, my hair just sighed!”
It wasn’t just sighing, it was cooing and purring, charmed by the comets and galaxies flying by with an electric hiss. The younger on laughed, a fat mango slice of a chuckle, and somersaulted seven times with panache. The older one bent herself into a pretzel and cart wheeled blissfully. Below their slap happy smiles the world was a glowing green kiwi of life spinning slowly without much rhyme or reason. The sisters paused in their cosmic calisthenics to peer down at their earthly domain.
“What a weird world, Sissy,” squeaked the little one, for she was wise and astute. They simultaneously developed lumps in their throats contemplating the mysterious joys and tragedies of human life. From way up there they couldn’t help but notice how everything, every drop of sweat on a Haitain’s brow, every bus stop littered with wrappers of Atomic Fire Balls, every sigh of every tree, and every mothers’ warm dry palm are inexorably connected for all time. The sisters saw all this together and joined hands with a squeeze.
“There’s so much we can do, “ said the young one, who saw how opportunities lapped at every door like ravenous lions.
“There’s so much we must do,” said the old one, who saw all the places love can fill in.
“Too bad we had to be swept up to this great height to see it all.”
“If only we had a little red fish to lead us home again.”
The young one was about to express her mistrust in any little red fish as an intergalactic vehicle when, through the starry darkness, a smiling sunfish swam steadily toward them. His fins were golden and, while he was no spring chicken, he was beautiful beyond compare.
“Oh,” said the little one.
“Hello,” said the tall one.
“Shall we?” inquired the water creature, slippery with suavity. Not too slippery, however, for his back fin made a perfect handhold for the big sister, while the little one held onto her shoulders.
“How did you know?” she whispered, as they began their exhilarating plummet to Earth.
“Oh, sis,” the big one squealed over the cry of the rushing wind, “You know it too. You get what you ask for.”
Earth was now a life- size playground for animals and oceans and gods and men. They could almost smell the seaweed, the popcorn, the sneaker feet, and the morning breath. It was good to be home again. The rest was like riding a bike down hill with no hands on a muggy night in July.

now now

i'm writing these words on the front porch of my new home new pines in central, minneapolis.
there's a black pitbull named Warhol next to me on the front steps, and my housemate Will is clacking away on a more genuine machine, a suitcase typewriter. Rosemary's trying to jimmy the lock on the mailbox.
Today was the warmest day yet, and though I spent the majority of it working inside the coffee shop, the heat of summer is tingling my toes and giving my bones some light.
from the soles of my feet, which ache from the cowboy boots i danced in on the treacherous basement floor of the Tardcore Compound, to the top of my head which is still crusty with pink gloppy paint. There's glitter in my underwear, and a sweet feeling of self-love rockin my socks.
Its been a good couple weeks back in Minneapolis, the best ever in fact.
A new scheme is brewing, that has nothing to do with England.
More with carpentry and ceramics, and Spanish lessons. Winter in Costa Rica.
I can feel myself making a conscious choice to be happy and sane, productive and true to myself.
This neighborhood feels like it has so much potential, so many opportunities. I wanna ride away from the sunrise every morning here, and wake up with a life to love. Can I get a hell yeah?

no, THAT's amore

{photo by Devin Asch, taken at the end of my old drive way on Big Eye}

glavanizing

gallavanting

goosebumps, gosh. serendipity super smooth. surly. bold brash ballsy. blase.

welcome wished would you like to

mouth mumble mimic moue

head butt beer breath

cigarette lips kiss slip tongue fun

jet lag

i dunno if this blog is going to get much more of my attention. it certainly has been lovely to write and read the responses here, but returning to minneapolis is an art form, and introspection is habitual and self-perpetuating. and outside is more fun than computer screens.

tonight amelia took me to a play-back theatre performance with some folks from a Theatre of the Oppressed group at MCTC. improv on the sidewalk in uptown, which is starved for some freaky raw love.

i'm at an impasse as to what'll happen in the fall, the rest of my life. so i'm going to create the most perfect situation and let it happen.

say what you love,

travel light and take nothing personally.

good night.

sober is the new fucked up (again)

Last night I dreamt that I was fully and completely off the wagon, to the extent that I was blacking out entire evenings again. Failing to retain memories from adventures still fresh in my bones, absent in my mind. Unable to be accountable for things done or said. MIA in my own life.
The dream gave me a hang over, and I sneered out at the grey skies, all right, all ready. I get the picture.
I met this person a few nights ago and had awesome connection, conversation. you know when you're immediately able to trust a person, that instantaneous feeling of familiarity and attraction. The conversation turned to sobriety, which was surely an anomaly behind the pub we met at, and I told him, I've was sober from 4-20 last year to about the middle of march this year. Now you're drinking again he asked? and goddamn, but I don't have an answer to that. Did something happen that acted as a sign to me, yes lucy you have this thing under control and you can drink now, and it doesn't matter and its not a waste of time?
No.
I was uninspired and depressed and in a foreign place where no one would remind me that my sobriety is one thing at least that I'm proud of.
Yikes. I feel almost obliged to write this here, to make my frame of mind accessible, because I want to understand. I want to know how the booze-y stuff works in my brain and body, and I want to know how you feel.
Is it unexamined in the vast majority? From 17 a beer in the hand is just Plain Old Normal, like a smile on your face, or a light on your bike. Does it make you question your perspective ever, or is that just the affliction of those who spend too much time inside their own heads? Are you thinking about what you're putting into your bodies?
More importantly, is it real?

“The bottom line is that (a) people are never perfect, but love can be, (b) that is the one and only way that the mediocre and vile can be transformed, and (c) doing that makes it that. We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love”
-Tom Robbins

your feet smell like cheese puffs

oh, i love a good montage...
picnicking with my dad on fish and chips on the bowling green above Bishop's Castle- a small, laid-back village with steep hills and friendly folks, talking to a couple of hot air balloon pilots (drivers? captains? what's the correct title?), riding horses up at the Foxholes on a grey Friday morning, driving cross-country with my dad with ShugE's live in florida cassette singing in our ears, getting lost in the smooth green hills of the Welsh border, drinking my way through a few evenings of old friends, meeting a soft-eyed gardener in the dark courtyard behind a divey pub called "the vaults", rocking out to Jeff Grimes' band playing Sex Machine at their free gig before they continue on to London, getting tackled by gangs of small cousins with wild, crazed eyes, and incoherently adorable accents, serendipitous meeting with some sexy gipsies from Manchester sippin tea fireside at yee olde family farm house listening to my dad tell stories about coming to that place as a kid, carved above the fireplace : we're simple people here,we like it like that, we keep our heads down and don't no one come near less we want 'em.
philisophical blatherings with optimistic undertones, sunburn peeling, eyes burning from the hot hot love this screen delivers to me (sorry, spending too much time googling " merkin")
where the fuck am i going to get 60, 000 greasy green american dollars?
the hustle continues...