Behind the Politeness of It All.

The Actress and The Girl

2011-11-16T04:02:00.003-05:00

So last night I was taking the 780 (bus) to Naked Angels, a weekly writers workshop/cold reading series. The bus heads West on Hollywood Boulevard and then South on Fairfax. At Fairfax and Santa Monica, an senior woman got on. She had on no makeup, a do rag, a cardigan with pills, and stretch pants. I kept thinking that if I were in more of a huntress mood, I would snap her photo. I felt a certain kinship to the whole disheveled thing she had going on. She sat next to me. I kept thinking, "Snap, Suz, snap." But then I felt conflicted since she was so unmade. Then I realized that I already HAD snapped her. Over the summer. In all of her glorious retro, or remnant, as the case may be, garb. It was a hot summer day, and she wore a hat and white gloves. I sat across from her and snapped her incessantly, as if she would become my personal flip book.

Last night, she asked me what her little antique watch said. I told her. We passed by the Silent Movie House. She asked me what's playing. I told her. She said she loves the movies. I asked.

"Are you an actress?"

She lit up.

"Well, sort of. Why do you ask?"

"I saw you dressed up on Hollywood Boulevard one day. And I thought, she's an actress."

"Was I wearing a white dress."

"Yes."

"Yes."

We smiled. Then her stop appeared.

"Well, this is my stop. Nice talking to you."

"Nice talking to you, too."

She leaned over.

"You know, you're a very pretty girl."

I lit up.

"Thank you."

Saturday Special Episode 3

2011-11-06T03:40:00.001-05:00

Saturday Special Episode 3 from KATIE LETIEN on Vimeo.

I Love this project. Thanks for watching!

Blogworld Convention

2011-11-05T22:16:00.005-04:00

Well. That was cool. Today I was a "speaker" at Blogworld LA. I acted in a couple of great scripts that were then critiqued by a panel of web savvy executives and writers as part of IAWTV's Panel on Web Series Writing.

On the plus, plus side, a tour through the convention center involved lots of swag, including a travel coffee cup, four plastic smoothie straw cups, five tshirts and a chip clip. Oh, and I asked one table for a Fun-Size Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate-candy was EVERYWHERE- and she said, "Sure, as long as you take this copy of eBay for Dummies SIGNED BY THE AUTHOR." Lady, you have no idea who you're talking to. Free crap is my game, and I've got a tub full of clothes in the don't pile.

I also spoke to Blogger about my Blog woes and identity crisis. I was wondering if I should scrap this and start fresh with diff sites for diff interests. They strongly advised that I put it all in one place, except the personal stuff. I didn't go that far into my blog identity crisis to let them know its the personal stuff that I wonder about.

The IAWTV panel was really informative, with lots of great minds analyzing scripts from various perspectives. It was fun to read as if I were doing radio plays, which essentially what it becomes when you have to project and only use your voice to demonstrate a script.

Now heading to AFI Fest. It's FREE!

Oh, and I forgot to mention they were also giving away ice cream sundaes today. Unbelievable.

Clouds by The Distnce

2011-09-08T02:09:00.001-04:00

Christian Peacock: The Spirit of Anouk Aimée

2011-09-06T13:55:00.000-04:00

Christian Peacock: The Spirit of Anouk Aimée: Suzan Mikiel and I spent a day in the Hollywood hills capturing the spirit of the French film actress Anouk Aimée. With the wonderful h...

Photo Shoot ala the A's

2011-08-20T01:34:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I had an all day photo shoot with photographer Christian Peacock and Hair/Makeup Artist Astra Ramyead. The muses were Anouk Aimee and Anne Bancroft with sprinkles of Anna Magnani. We had so much fun creating- 12 hours flew by!

Nick Drake- Northern Sky

2011-08-15T01:58:00.002-04:00

Some songs hold your mind hostage, consume you until something settles. Some songs just pop in to say hello out of nowhere. This song is the latter.

SATURDAY SPECIAL- EPISODE 2

2011-08-10T23:06:00.003-04:00

Here's EPISODE 2 of SATURDAY SPECIAL, a comedy web series that I'm working on with some of my favorite funny ladies.

Saturday Special Episode 2 from KATIE LETIEN on Vimeo.

California Tilt Shift

2011-08-07T21:12:00.001-04:00

A Day in California from Ryan Killackey on Vimeo.

Dry Land- The Distance

2011-08-04T14:58:00.002-04:00

Here's a song by a talented friend. It's one of those songs you still hear even in silence.

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast

2011-07-29T16:33:00.001-04:00

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast, a photo by Mike Rollerson on Flickr.

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast

2011-07-29T16:32:00.001-04:00

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast, a photo by Mike Rollerson on Flickr.

Along with trips to Detroit (for Grandma's 90th) and NYC (touched home soil) I went to San Diego for Comic Con with the Icarus II Project. www.watchicarus.com

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast

2011-07-29T16:27:00.001-04:00

Comic Con 2011 - Icarus II Cast, a photo by Mike Rollerson on Flickr.

Locked

2011-04-10T12:10:00.004-04:00

I love my bicycle. I've neglected my bicycle. Inadvertently, for several months, it has rested along the side of the house I live in, locked to a pile of metal gates. It wasn't ignored due to monsoon season here in LA. Aside from ark-searching days, the climate has been perfect for biking. What happened was, I lost my bike lock keys, which were still attached to my New York set of keys, which I didn't feel like looking at. So I hid them and forgot where. Trying to find them instigated several organization projects, in the hopes of finding them. Then last week or so, after running out of coffee, I resorted to grabbing an old bag of flavored beans that I wondered why I still had. I soon discovered that I kept the bag because it was the perfect place to keep a set of keys. And yet I still didn't ride.

I wanted to go to CICLAVIA and discovered this really cool place called Bicycle Kitchen, a nonprofit where you can gain the hands on experience of learning about your bike by repairing it yourself while guided by a "cook".

So, yesterday, I get ready to head on over there to be first on their wait list in order to give my neglected darlin' bike some TLC. I made sure I wore all black, because I just knew that I would be covered in grease. I made sure that I wore spandex pants that I could turn into bicycle shorts, just in case I needed to go off road during the grease session. I was all set. Good to go. On time if not early. Go to unlock my bike and it'll turn, just not come off. Eventually I tried slinging heavy metal objects against it, but it's a New York Kryptonite ULock.This company has a model called Fahgettaboutit. And people do.

After a serious case of disenchantment, consulting of friends, contemplating locksmiths and the fire department, in the end it came down to WD40, and the brains and brawn of a friend, who encouraged me to still go down to Bicycle Kitchen. I had assumed that since five minutes after discovering the place, I saw it featured on Channel 4 news, that there was no way in hell I was getting in the day before CICLAVIA. Thankfully, I was wrong.

So I get down there. This place it cool. I mean really cool. Bikes everywhere. People working together. And I put my name on the waitlist. There are a few people ahead of me, so they said that they'd call me when one of the six work stands becomes available. No problem, as it's a good opportunity to check out this little hip oasis that I've been meaning to check out for awhile.

I started at SCOOPS. Technically, I'm on a birthday countdown health kick (ie I'm not calling it a diet but, if I happen to lose 5-10 pounds I won't complain), but it's the infamous SCOOPS! So, I just had two sample spoons- one nondairy salted chocolate and one dairy black truffle. The dairy consistency and texture was great, but I didn't really taste any truffle, so I triumphantly said thanks and walked next door to CAFE ORGANICO. . I frequented their Silverlake location and Farmers Market Stands since moving here, however I had yet to see this new location, which is palatial compared to Silverlake. They even serve more food items. The place has a great mellow vibe, and a little balcony, which is a perfect place to hideaway and work.

Still no call, so I checked out a couple of the shops on Melrose. Not that Melrose. Bicycle district Melrose. Quirky.

The first was Eric Berg's Early California Antiques. This place is a bit pricey, and the shop owners will be the first to tell you that, as their goods are a very specialized, limited niche- Pre WWII California. Their wares were lovely, and we had a good laugh about New York Subways and unidentifiable owners of farts. This stemmed from my attraction to two lovely little paintings of Old Brooklyn. I stepped inside of them.

Next door, a lovely young woman with a flair for fashion, had opened up a resale shop. There were some fun finds in there, and she also reworked several pieces to make them more modern and wearable. They're new, so it's cash only until Monday. So, I have a pair of red snakeskin peek toe sling backs on hold. I need these.

Still no call, so I headed to the next store. It's a bra shop. I walk in, and it's pristine and white inside and three women in store smocks greet me. One even has a British accent. I replied, "Hi."

"You seem scared," said the Brit.

"I'm just taken aback. I didn't expect this place to be so officious. I'm just killing time before my Bicycle Kitchen appointment"

They laugh. They a friendly gal asks, "Would you like a free bra fitting?"

I hesitated for half a second while 5000 pros and 3000 cons raced through my head. "Sure. Why not."

The friendly gal takes me back and stands there while I take off my large black tshirt that says BOLLOCKS on it.

And I don't even have to take off my bra. She looks at my chest and starts laughing.

"They're babies!"

I always thought they were a fairly average size, so I turn a little pink upon learning this new information.

It turns out that JEANNETTE is a shop that caters to "natural" women size D and up. The friendly gal then called Jeannette herself over to look at my quaint chest and laugh. I was laughing to. What can you do, as I'm probably the only B cup that's ever cracked the inner sanctum.

Friendly gal suggested I stop wearing baggy clothes, and advised with what I detected to be a slight tint of envy,

"You can shop at Forever 21!"

i don't think I will, but that's good to know.

After that I made it to my appointment, which took about five minutes to readjust the brakes. I'm guessing it's because there was a really hot model in line after me that my cook was dying to make sure he helped. It was kind of funny, while I was putting air in my tires he walked away to see him running to Cafe Organico to let her know that it's her turn. To be fair, he held down his hormones until he was sure I knew how to use the air hose.

The bikes all fixed and I'm on my way.

Link

2011-04-07T03:11:00.002-04:00

Well, it's been quite a week or so.

The high point would be that I had a couple of photos in a group exhibition in Santa Ana at the Orange County Center of Contemporary Art. An entire gallery filled with iphoneography- it was quite a spectacle. It was also fun to see people stop and point and discuss my photos. I love being a fly on the wall. Sometimes I don't know if that's a good thing, but it serves it purpose in some art forms, or it's how I process things.

Here's an article about the exhibit in Life in Lofi.

The low point would be that I'm parting my hair on the right again. It's for the best, I guess. Always is. I think I'll shave my head...

We

2011-03-29T00:16:00.007-04:00

I've come to the formidable conclusion that if I say "I'll never" about ___________________ (fill in the blank), that inevitably that is exactly what will come to fruition. I don't know why this is. Maybe I'm addressing my attention on what I don't want vs. what I do. Want. There's an alchemy to need.

-shortlist-
I never wanted to:
waitress.
attend college at the geriatric age of 25.
live with someone without being married.
rent a room in Los Angeles that has carpeting.

It's Sisyphean. All of it. But especially the carpet.

No matter what I do, signs of daily life leave their mark. I take my shoes off, disinfect myself that would make a prison guard salivate, use a variety of cleaners and treatments ranging from non-toxic to a eh, you might want to leave the windows open for awhile... and yet more spots appear. At this point I've begun to call my carpet Lady MacBeth and only halfheartedly vacuum and Borax, knowing that the more I rub, the more insidiously maddening its permanent stains will burn upon my conscience. There is a stubborn record of existence.

Sure, there was the ear candling incident, which was warranted due to wax buildup. I was afraid I had gone deaf after a Betty Serveert concert. And the red wine. Boy and I had a picnic, and I tried to coyly flounce about with dinner, candles and wine, which is just like sticking a tutu on an elephant. I don't do coy. Nor flounce.

The point is, it never washes away. Nothing I do can ever erase the steps I take.

This makes me wonder about daily living. I don't think that pasts can be absolved- just because a priest says so. I think pasts can be resolved to reach a point of peace, though. Throughout all of my mishaps, my quest is peace. And love.

Yet what about the stains of others? Can they ever be removed, or are they part of the contract. Take those stains and combine them with yours and hopefully a really cool pattern will emerge. Or the stains will cancel each other out. Combust into brightness and a clean beginning. The truth of it all is though is that the older one gets, behavioral cliches become reality. People make associations between all of the mistakes of all the people who have caused pain in the past. One false move from the present or not so present before you becomes an apocalyptic warning sign that you will live a life of unrequited connectedness full of torment and anguish. So you stand there and think about cats. Being that cliche who loves cats- the ultimate lateral emotional replacement.

I used to hear about that woman. That bitter woman who never gave anyone a chance because she knew how it would all play out so she saved her energy from the start.

I never wanted to be a part of this royal we.

Half Full

2011-03-26T21:13:00.004-04:00

I went to see a live performance of Radiolab on Thursday at UCLA's Royce Hall. The show is an NPR podcast that takes an in depth scientific meets humanistic meets humorous exploration of subject matters. At this special live show, the topic was symmetry. The show opened with a lovely parable by Aristophanes about connectedness- the name of it, I am not sure- about connectedness. How humans were joined together at one point and for practical purposes, they were physically torn apart and forced to navigate their way through this world alone, yet the need for complete unity remained, which left humans scouring the world for their soul mates.

Midway through the show, there was a humorous piece about a man who at 19 yrs old, was bullied and ignored to the point of near depression, until one day he discovered that his mirror image was not what people were seeing, only what he saw. He started parting his hair on the left side of his head instead of the right in order to replicate the confident, dapper person he knew via his reflection. Miraculously, his luck immediately changed. He was no longer a social outcast. At the time Jimmy Carter was president, so the young man wrote President Carter an advisory letter to persuade him to change his part in order to change the world's affairs. Carter did.

Not long ago, I finally obtained my California state Driver's permit. A day couple days later, I was at the hair salon getting a tune up. My salon is owned by a Parisian/Turkish/Armenian genius. It's a cosmopolitan love fest in the middle of Silver Lake. That evening, a gorgeous French-Italian woman was blowing my hair out and insisted that I part my hair on the left. She said it worked better with my face, and since I'm a bit- is it too unPC to say hairtarded here?- about those things, I went with it, with just one small request.

"Could you just not make my hair do that flat thing, and give it a little natural wave? Volume, I guess?"

She asked if I'm going out that evening.

"Yeah. I'm going to a lecture about the history of the automobile pre 1856."

"A-Why?" She flatly inquired with poorly masked disbelief.

"Well...I just got my driver's permit, so it's a neat way to celebrate...and a boy asked me."

"I a knew it!!"

Next thing you know, there are bobby pins and sprays and oils and curlers and straighteners attacking my head all at once.

I walked out of there six inches taller from the scalp up. Maybe a little more follicle rehabilitation than I anticipated, yet, I let it fall naturally vs smoosh it down because I was so enchanted that my hairdresser was so enchanted. We all spin like the same top.

Twice during the podcast, Zoe Keating played her cello. This woman is amazing. She samples and builds and creates layers of inspired sounds. The first piece was "Optimist". I had never heard anything like this before. Neither did the boy sitting next to me. We'd both like to hear her in concert. Who knows, it may even beat the lecture we went to about the automobile pre 1856.

Rain Clouds

2011-03-24T04:08:00.004-04:00

More rain today. I ran around the city for a couple of auditions sans umbrella. My very own storm cloud covered my head. It had been growing by exponential proportions daily and I wondered if I would ever return to who I once was a mere week ago. Maybe this dark trajectory would stain like red wine on carpet and I would forever speak in curses and begin my day with lovely phrases such as, "Fuck you, you fuck fuck." Not knowing who exactly I was calling a fuck fuck, or why I was insisting they fuck off.

The first audition was in the Eastern Bloc of West Hollywood. I was sure it would be a breeze to get there. The Kremlin now runs the the LA Metro. Bus lines are being cut and subway expansion is planned. However, I'm almost certain that the cuts took effect immediately and that the lines will take effect in the next five to ten years. I waited patiently with weathered and battered souls of varying walks of lifes. Hipsters to convicts to Womenly men to Manly women. Eventually we all filed onto the bus. And as I tried to muster up my marvel for the unique sites of the workings and underbelly of Eastern Santa Monica Boulevard, I started to wonder...would it be more productive to marvel about things like an Infiniti M37? In always appreciating the underdog, am I making enough room things in my life such as my high maintenance hippie and not so hippie needs?

I only wondered these things while jostling about on the bus. Once back on pavement, my brain was too soaked to really give a flying fig. I lolligagged the long way and meandered to Fairfax to have lunch at Whole Foods despite the fact that they're in bed with Monsanto's soy beans.

The my-god-will-we-ever-really-get-divorced-ex-husband and I exchanged some texts and calls about things like glasses. Transportation. Doctors. Weather. I felt my entire body and voice close up as I tried to curtail the conversation while seventh in line at the 12 Items or Less Lane. The convo is to be continued. Again.

I made my way to the Valley and took some wrong directions down Ventura, and ended up at my favorite Coffee Bean, where I had a magic coupon for the drink of my choice due to waiting a crazy long time for an ice blended one day. Today seemed like a really, really good day for it. I had my beverage and the manager of the store and I chatted. He wished me well and meant it. Really meant it.

I left the shop and the rain stopped. The sky flashed pink frilly underwear. My saucony's hurdled lagoons for sport and I made my way to another audition. This one didn't involve anyone but the words, the director, the song in my ears, and the woman who was ready to come off the page. We enjoyed our time together. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

The director shook my hand and said, "Drive home safely."

I will.

Documenting the Weekend

2011-03-22T04:01:00.003-04:00

The weekend was wet. It rained all day on Sunday. People who are fortunate enough to own homes were unfortunate enough to smell the dank emissions of their idyllic sets unglued. Not washed away. Just unglued. This land isn't meant for the sky's tears. Unhappiness has nowhere to land here.

On Saturday, which was a moody overcast but not bipolar day, I specifically spent the majority of the day partaking in street photography while photographer Christian Peacock shot a doc-bio about my "work" process on his very own iPhone 4. Christian was enough of a trooper to chase me up and down subway- excuse me, I mean METRO staircases, and in and out of locations that struck my fancy. Seeing as how we just happened to be downtown at one point and I just happened to find Babycakes NYC on my iPhone's Google maps, we had tea time and cupcakes to fuel a last round of shooting. We also stumbled upon the PHIL STERN GALLERY and had a lovely tour of its historically significant/mind blowing contents by the gallery's curator, Marc Baker.

This was the first day ever- barring events like the NYC Easter Parade- that I set out to take street photos. Usually it's a matter of just going about my day, and if I see something I see something. Well, I tend to see something everywhere, snap, I guess is the operative word. After awhile, your eyeballs become lenses, and you have to turn them off in order to participate and experience the gifts of life in front of you.

Luckily, we stumbled upon plenty to document. Hopefully, I have a few photos that attest to the sites of the day.

On Sunday, while most of LA ran 26.2 miles in the rain, Christian and I chatted into a microphone for a couple hours about life and art for the piece's voice over. My lil' microphone packs quite a punch. Good to know.

Art. Such a short, curt word that rhymes with so many other silly words. I wonder if there's another word to describe that feeling. That quiet temple of solitude and connectedness that comes out of the act of true expression.

update

2011-03-16T03:32:00.003-04:00

Things are moving along in lovely, lovely LA. I'll be showing a photo or two in Santa Ana, at OCCA, and then the Arty Gallery in downtown LA. I'm super excited to be in a gallery downtown, and can't wait to go on a legendary art walk and be an artist as well as a viewer!

The sun has been shining in the best possible way here. It hasn't been overbearing or timid. It's just there. You can count on it to warm you up, and work with you. Wherever you are. Of course, I'll throw an extra light layer in my bag just in case it decides to run away. However, I've found that it's been unnecessary. It's been steadfast.

Last weekend I shot a science fiction web series, The Icarus II Project A lot of wonderful, talented people were involved in making this project come to life, and it was fantastic to be a part of it.

This week has been all about commercial auditions, callbacks and first avails. Fun times.

Quiero Mis Quinces - MTV3

2011-01-29T02:19:00.000-05:00

MTV3 - QMQ Promo- Director's Cut from Carlos Lopez Estrada on Vimeo.

Quick Update

2010-12-10T13:21:00.004-05:00

"My mistake this morning was that I took a hot shower."
-Tom, the mayor of the Starbuck's on Vermont

Tom's the boss of that place. He sits in his chair from early in the morning until midnight. I'm sure he takes a food break, since he's obese. And knowledgeable in the medical profession. He advises everyone on everything. Referred to Kathy Ireland as a big girl. Told a bipolar Armenian relationship counselor that her banana has 500 calories. The Armenian batted her eyelashes, giggled and got up to get him a cup of water for his fish oil pills, and then started crying 10 minutes later about her mother's fibromyalgia. Apparently Tom and his court are members of mensa. Kind of makes me kind of grateful to be stupid.

Things are plugging along nicely here. I have a new IMDb credit. It's going to be a great project, with lots of wonderful people working on it. My character is named after the script consultant, who worked on Battlestar Gallactica. I've never done sci-fi before, nor a web series, so I'm looking forward to learning about both worlds. Also, I've secured a wonderful Commercial Agent, who is a complete joy. Now I'm working on assembling a reel. It's taking a bit longer than I anticipated, but it seems that all things do. Who am I to dictate time? All I can do is keep myself prepared for possibility. I believe in possibility, otherwise, I would probably have a much more dour outlook as to my current living situation. And bank account.

I have three roommates. Two guys and one girl. The girl is a lovely redhead, as in Pippi Longstocking's hair looks mousy next to hers. I had a yard sale last Sunday (goodbye 19 boxes) and ended up giving her all of my skinny clothes that didn't sell. She's young. 25. She's at the eating disorder phase of life. Let her look good while heads turn her way. In return, she offered up some of her fat clothes. So cute.

I have to say, that is one thing I miss about depression. Being a human hanger. I'd rather celebrate life and its beauty with a girdle on- or better yet, letting it all hang out, than the emptiness and sadness it took to naturally suppress my appetite.

The other two roomies, the guys, both have one child. Each has a boy. Age five-nearly-six. It's strange, because there was a boy age-five-nearly-six living behind my friend's apartment in Silverlake as well. Playmates of the soul I guess. The little boys do not live at the house. That's a good thing. One of the the guys is an ex-marine and a social worker and likes to relax at home in his room. The other guy is ex-army and a playground supervisor. And a pot dealer. I'm trying to convince him to invest in a vaporizer so that the common room does not smell so pastoral.

Tom the Mayor is now talking about sects and sex. I'm going to have a listen!

That's all for now!
xo

Crystal

2010-11-17T02:32:00.006-05:00

Things have been slow paced hectic. I've slowly been rushing to move into my new room in my new home in Los Feliz. I have three roommates, and have met two of them. One is a social worker for the Veteran's Administration, and the other works at Starbuck's and plays bass with bands like the Smashing Pumpkins. From what I gather, my new home is a huge art commune. There are people living upstairs and in the house in the back. As long as patchouli is prohibited, this should be good.

I ended up buying some furniture on Craigslist from the spare bedroom of a beautiful young woman in West Hollywood who was moving to Paris for work. While my movers were loading the truck with my newly acquired belongings: dresser, nightstand, mattress, frame, table, I discovered that she is launching a luxury porn business. She showed me the interface and shared the story lines, etc. It's bound to be a very successful venture.

Honestly, I was only half listening, as I kept wondering if any porn videos were shot on the bed I'm buying. At that point, I couldn't "return" it, or waste hiring movers, etc., so I just thought. Well, if it's a porn bed, maybe some good luck will rub off on me.

I hope to be in my new home full time by the end of the week. And I hope to have a new survival job. I catered for the first time this evening. Somewhere between moving and whatnot, I seemed to have misplaced my brand new bistro length apron an hour before I was supposed to be at MOCA, where the event was taking place. I booked on my bike (without a helmet as I had already styled my hair into the required bun with a dozen bobby pins) to the uniform store on Vermont and Fountain, then took the Metro Redline to 7th St Metro Station then biked to MOCA. I was on time!

Wow. Talk about a cast of characters. I worked with a on-the-verge-of 50 party girl ex-Las Vegas "tweeker", which apparently refers to the use of meth. Her name was Crystal. I'm not kidding. And she was my favorite of the bunch. She believes in keeping herself in a vacuum of positive energy to prevent stress and worry creating wrinkles on her face. "I'm very Buddhist and live in the now. What is, is." It must work. Her skin is flawless, especially for a smoker/tweeker/heavy drinker/ daily pothead. The others on the crew may have been in the same substance category, however, they obviously tend to stress out about things a bit more, as they were haggard beyond the rescue of several hundred cc's of botox. Instead of freaking out in a fatalistic Sliding Doors - what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do-to-screw-up-my-life sort of way, I snuck in a few breaths of the Rothko's. There's a certain comfort derived from traveling between planes of color. Although, I will say, they added an insipidly large statue of an Alex Katz inspired woman in the middle of the gallery which completely detracts from the astral experience of that room.

Earlier this week, my soon-to-eventually-be-my ex-husband shipped my 19 boxes from a couple storage units. It was stuff that I have long forgotten about and don't need, and some wedding presents that I don't know what the heck to do with. I don't really need things like Waterford toasting goblets in my life at this point. It doesn't quite go with the college dorm/porn star decor. I filled 15 garbage bags with bubble wrap and styrofoam peanuts, and broke down the boxes and threw most of the stuff in a corner in my now full room. My very first yard sale will be happening soon. The bass player may join, which would be cool. She likes vintage too.

I've been angry this week. Angry about a lot of things that have happened in the past. About a lot of things that resurface as I key apart packing tape and bubble wrap. Whether it's real or figurative, I guess it's good to break down the garbage because then you decide whether you want to hold on to it, own it, or truly let it go.

Today I went for a walk and ate lunch at Echo Park Lake, watching the ducks quack and seagulls fight over caught fish. Today I remembered that I am lucky enough to have a memory that was better than I remember. You know how somethings are never as good as you remember? Like the second cup of coffee at a new place you discovered, or visiting some favorite childhood place that you look at and go, "that's it?" I have a memory, or memories, of something/someone so wonderful, that just thinking about their source brings a bright ball of sunshine to my soul.

I remember the first time i went to MOCA in June. My ex-boyfriend/favorite museum partner (minus the Takashi Murakami show- but that's another story for another time) and I went while we were in town for the film festival. We were both pleasantly impressed with the museum's works. Now tonight, I stood where we stood and where I stood one other time alone, serving buffalo fois gras truffle cheese burgers on homemade brioche with a potato chip and mayonnaise to some of the most boring people on earth. Ah well, at least I had Crystal.

Bulk Bins

2010-10-24T18:53:00.005-04:00

My ex-husband-but-we're-still-technically-married sent me a gift in the mail. It's nice to receive small gifts out of the blue. I hopened the envelope. Yes, I said hopened- you know, when you open something with excitement. Hope. No anticipation as to what it could be. Sure, stock certificates or an American Express Black Card- Centurion wouldn't hurt, but I don't expect, nor anticipate a windfall of good fortune. I just hope for something good.

It was a book(let). Stress Therapy by Tom McGrath. It has pictures. Drawings of Pinocchio-esque elves enacting the relaxing numerated advise tips.

I never liked Highlights Magazine, because of some of the creepy drawings. These elves brought back the shudder. I tossed the book and headed towards Hollywood(esque) to Erewhon. y new favorite way overpriced but pretty cool health food store was having a Fall Party. I have no idea why I felt compelled to attend, other than the fact that I'm a complete sucker for samples. And bulk bins. God, I love a good array of bulk food bins.

The party was actually kind of like a party. There were tons and and tons of different food samples arraying from raw confections to herbed and oiled fetas (the feta guy was a wee bit shocked that I called him out on which brand he uses) to beautiful steamed kobucha squash and yams.

Besides the edible bounty, there were guides. An Angel Reader. A Tarot Card Reader. A Psychic Medium. An Acupuncturist.

Okay, this is what compelled me to come to the party. But, I really do love a good bulk bin. I do.

Not to cop out with proceeding sentence, but. They had me at hello. They weren't about hocking some bullshit schlock. They were just happy to be, and tried to honestly share any advice or insight that they could. It wasn't all, "You will meet a tall, dark, stranger." I guess, because that's not what I'm looking for. I'm not looking for anything, but I can't wait to find it.

I started with the acupuncturist. She asked me what ailed me. I told her my left side goes numb sometimes and my digestion is whacked (which may or may not be a direct result of too many bulk bin snacks). So she put six needles in pressure points for circulation and to basically help me chill out.

I'm sensing a, oh, I don't know...THEME?!?

It was the first time I've ever ever had an acupuncture sample. I chilled right the fuck out. I'm not chill as I write this- 4th day back on coffee. Not wise.

We talked, we made friends. I told her my life story. She said that my left side could be opening up to receiving. We're going to hang out.

The Angel Reader was an Armenian guy. Right away I felt guilty even standing in front of him. I know that I'm not personally responsible for genocide, and according to my grandmother, my ancestors were like the only stupid Turks in the village to wind up with their heads on Armenian sticks- and this I believe, because to this day, no one in my family can do anything wrong without consequence or jail time. Seriously, one of my brothers was arrested for skateboarding. The other was arrested for riding his bike past curfew in Detroit. I have never been arrested, but that doesn't mean I don't think I might be every time I swipe a sample from a bulk food bin. Anyway, I instantly felt like, "oh, he's hates my Angels and me." But he was lovely, open, generous, and instructional.

Armenian Angel Reader told me to chill out. Not as in, sit on your ass all day, but as in, don't worry so much. You're exactly where you need to be. Open your soul and receive the beauty of others. And you're going to have a new wardrobe soon.

The Tarot Card Reader had the most amazing green eyes. They were almost yellow like a cat. Her young skin was caramel brown and Her brown curly hair was spun with gold. Like a cat so Purrrrty. She drew three cards: Abundance, Ideas and Inspiration, Romance. She opened her mouth then clamped it shut.

She asked me what I wanted. I told her. I want to act and write. She said that this will all happen. And that now is the time to chill. At this point, I'm wondering, do they tell everyone to chill? Is it the stye eye? I tried to unsuccessfully have it removed and now it's bruised. (I'm never sure if it's spelled sty or stye. Both appear to be acceptable. And it doesn't really matter, since my spelling has gone to shit anyway. I blame it on im'ing. It's kind of like running naked without a dictionary. And since I im with some younger folks, who has time to spell? It's an ADD marathon! )Do I look like an abused woman or something? She said that now is the time to trust. Yourself. To listen to your angels that come through via that little voice in your head. If you hear "turn right", then turn right. Don't question, defy and then rationalize why turning left is an obligatory, pragmatic and more sound choice. Don't question yourself, because you are so blessed in everything.

She's right. I am blessed. Even though my child died. I am blessed. He died in our arms, knowing he is loved. We had two extra beautiful years to say goodbye. I'm blessed to have Hope.

I remember when I was eight months pregnant, crossing Ninth Avenue in Hell's Kitchen. I stopped in my tracks and shouted, "HOPE!" I thought it was my child's name coming to me, although I secretly wanted a boy so badly. Hope. Was it advise? Have hope? Sometimes, over the past few years, I've wondered if having my hope would have changed things. Would he have survived? I don't think this anymore. Until Superman tucks me into his cape to reverse the rotational axis of Earth so that we can stand upon the point in time when my son didn't have cancer. It doesn't help to go back in time. It won't change what happened. I know he's happy. I know he's with me. I believe.

"You're recently out of a relationship, aren't you? It's not your fault, so quit thinking it is. It wasn't you. It just was. In about six months you'll be ready for a relationship. The cards say it's with someone you already know." Sweet thought, but they can't all be perfect.

I waited out the psychic line. As we sat, I tried to concentrate. Overloaded with sugary samples and all of this karmic information and listening to some people right behind us speak loudly about mouthwash, I was a little distracted. Plus, I was trying to evaluate how much work she had done on her face. Was it worth it? What did she look like before? Did it hurt? Is she happy with the alterations?

She told me to relax. And that I'm here to share my story. That my story will help others who are going through similar situations.

My botox thought bubble burst and in my mind I gave a big hug to all the parents of terminally ill children, all the women who are starting over, all the people who are renouncing unhappiness and embracing creativity and celebrating the beauty of life everyday.

I took the bus home, closed my eyes and opened the book. This is what I read:

8.

Giving yourself compassion and understanding lowers your stress level. No matter who else is on your side, you can be.

8 was Hazen's favorite number.

Wrong Side of the Fence

2010-10-12T17:17:00.009-04:00

I've always been from the wrong side of the tracks. Literally. Well, figuratively, actually, since I didn't grow up near a railroad, although I did live across from a canal for the first few years of my life, and that was technically the right side of the wrong tracks. I grew up in Detroit. Yes, now I'm grateful that I hold more street cred than most of Michigan and can actually mean Detroit, Detroit when I say I grew up in Detroit. Yet, it took well into when I was very settled in NYC to realize that. Before that, I just wanted to be like everybody else. Somehow. In at least one facet of life.

When I was little, we lived on Alter Road. Alter is the the very last or very first- depending if you're into half empty or full thinking- street in Detroit. There's a "famous" drive to take along Jefferson Avenue when visiting Detroit. It starts in Grosse Pointe (Shores, Woods, Farms, City, then Park) a tony suburb full of auto dynasty mansions that face Lake St. Clair. You progress through an idyllic land of sailboats, private parks, yacht clubs, and manicured lawns of stately homes- each more impressive from a fresh catch filet.

The drive spits you out into a barren wasteland, into the depths of Detroit's infamous, alluring, dangerous, crack house addled hopelessness. And it all starts with Alter Road.

Not to say my childhood was in a war zone. Far from the opposite. When I was living on Alter, my grandparents lived two blocks away. My grandfather had an acre or so of land, and created an Eden for a dreamer like me to get lost in: it was abundance and beauty.

My house, technically an income property- we lived on the lower level and rented out the upstairs to various students and transients, had a backyard with a swing set. It had a short fence with a gate you could walk through. As a little girl, this was quite an asset, because on the next street over, Barrington, in Grosse Pointe Park, there were children!

The girls on Barrington were exotic. They were pale and skinny. I was a tub of olive oil. They had short haircuts. My hair was so long it would perpetually get caught in my bicycle. They wore bathing suits at the age of five. I ran around bare chested like a little Fellini urchin. Their homes were upper middle class single families! They used...margarine.

There were boys, too. The girls had brothers. Older brothers. The kind that climbed trees and shot rubber bands. And cap guns. They were the Road Runners and I was the clumsy coyote. Literally. I have the scarred legs to prove it. The boys and girls all convened at the Augder house. Holly and Bart's mom. She served m&m's at snack time. I would get in trouble for sticking my dirty hands in the bowl. I liked to dig for worms and then cut them up, just to see if both sides would wiggle still.

One day in June, I was pretending to be Superman and singing to myself on my swing set, and Mr. Augder walked through the gate and straight up to me.

"You were throwing rocks over the fence."

Mr. Augder always scared me. Years earlier, when I was three, he took us all to see Heidi. It was to be the first movie I would ever see. Well, my mom said we were seeing Heidi but it turned out that we were seeing Grizzly Adams- a movie about a loner who lived in a forest and a bear. I wasn't a very adaptable child. Things were supposed to be what they said they were. I started screaming at the top of my lungs, "I can't see Grizzly Adams, my mother told me I'm going to see Heidi! I'M. SUPPOSED. TO. SEE. HEIDI!!" I contorted my whole body to prevent being carried into the theater, crying hysterically until I was finally distracted by the discovery of buttered popcorn.

"You were throwing ROCKS over the FENCE."

I had no idea what Mr. Augder was talking about. I gave him the fish stare mixed with worry, trying to recollect if I had actually thrown rocks over the fence. Mr. Augder barreled past me and confronted my father in the front yard. I trailed after to peek- squishing fish flies under my sandals. By tomorrow they would all be skeletons anyway. Sometimes I liked to pick them up by their wings and watch them dance, and then let them fly away. Dad was never good at confrontation. They had a beer.

The next week or so, Mr. Augder put up a large wooden fence. Without a gate.

I don't know why it happened, or what I did. Maybe I was the fall guy for Bart and his gang. Maybe a fence went up instead of someone getting a severe ass whoopin'. To me, at the time, it just was a physical manifestation of the simple fact that I didn't belong. Little by little the neighborhood didn't include my street or my home or me. Grosse Pointe zoning changed, so that through streets were blocked, their public park refused admittance to anyone who lived on Alter, and Holly and the girls did things like put on plays. I went to one, and remember thinking, "Boy, this is silly. I could never act." Go figure.

I never felt like a have-not until I learned all the things I'm supposed to have.

Sometimes, I feel like I can walk through anything, and sometimes, I feel like I'm the only one trapped behind a wooden fence. Either way, I'm the architect.

Eyes

2010-10-10T02:45:00.010-04:00

Look at my residual headshot makeup!

Soooo.....yeah....pity party for one, your circumstances have arrived. Since you've already dealt with the death of a child, a pending divorce, working with cancer patients, uprooted yourself and moved across the country with 10 suitcases and an unemployment check, and handled all of that in a , "No really, I'm fine," sort of way- big smiles and a six month detour with with the devil, but other than that, it's all been under control- let's just really rock your world and give you a big fat nasty sty so that you can learn that your insurance is an "East Coast Thang", and you can pedal around LA and Glendale with your gimp blind eye and figure out how to fix it.

Every pharmacist I visited (seven in total) looked at me with horror and said go to a doctor. It's infected. After four days of various levels of swelling and pain, I decided to follow their collective advice. I have Oxford- a well known insurance provider. On the East coast. It turns out that the only places that take Oxford in LA are these "Minute Clinics", which are located in certain CVS'. According to Oxford's website, there is a clinic in fairly nearby Glendale. I called Minute Clinic's main line to verify location, etc...my mistake. In the future, I will call a store directly instead of blindly trust a stupid crappy out of date database that some twerp is manning from his kitchen or sad sack of a spartan office decked out in colonial blue located in Nondescriptville, USA. I trusted him. He said my Minute Clinic would be open until 6:30pm, and that they had an hour off for lunch.

It was going to be so easy to take care of this.

My bike ride to the CVS was nice. I even stopped by The Americana (Just like The Grove, but better) for a ice blended at the Coffee Bean....and then I stopped by a HomeGoods because, well, it was there. Suburbia has a shiny appeal that I like to visit- especially when wearing sweat socks.

Plus, I was yelping my brains out and discovered that Glendale is Armenian, Persian and Lebanese food heaven.

I didn't actually try anyplace, since I was having dinner with two girlfriends from Actors Theater of Louisville, whom I hadn't seen for 14 years.

I finally make it to the CVS on East Broadway. It was trippy. There was a beauty counter with overly done portly women who were apparently extremely committed to beauty. And black eyeliner worn in a non Goth non ironic way. And Aquanet. Their counter was a happening. They even had their own special ghettoblaster with a Michael Jackson tape cranking.

I make my way to the back, and discover that this particular Minute Clinic has been closed. There was a minute clinic in Montrose.

Where's Montrose? I can't bother with a map. I'm on a bike, for god's sake. I wait my turn for a pharmacist consultation. She doesn't so much consult, but she kindly doesn't charge me for the box of kleenex I use as I drip my predicament upon her counter. She sweetly tells me not to despair. There's an Urgent Clinic a few blocks down on Garfield. Go there. They take all kinds. Of insurance.

I make my way there, and it appeared to be closed. Empty parking lot. Locked doors. This time I didn't give up. I called. The pharmacist said that they would be open until 6. She was right. There was another part of the building around the alley. That's their entrance.

I sign in, fill out the papers, did the insurance dance- jazz hands! Out of pocket! And see the doctor. After the male nurse weighed me. I should have told him not to bother. Wish I did, because now I'm perplexed as to how my friend's digital scale sa made me think I need to loose 5-6 lbs, and the medical scale at urgent care upped the anti 14 lbs, leaving me to think I'll need an antibiotic rx, superglue and a lapvband.

I've always struggled with my weight, and judging by the last post, you'd think I was okay with it. I was. The emperor has new clothes, I guess...because he was so fat that nothing fit anymore.

When does it get easier?

I know this too shall pass. Maybe it's easier to focus on the small things. To break down over a sty and gaining 14 pounds in a day, versus breaking down about everything important to you in life breaking down. The elements in life you expected to always be there disappear, so that nothing in this world is in solid form anymore. Sometimes, all you want in life is for a measurement to be the same no matter where you stand. And your eyes to be your eyes again.

I got home, took a shower, threw on a sparkly sweater. And a girdle. Mom always said when you feel like shit, look good. Well, she doesn't swear, but that's the basic meaning of the saying- kind of like laughing yoga. I had a wonderful dinner with two extremely intelligent, beautiful, graceful women that I'm so happy to reconnect with. One is a new mother and just completed law school. The other is finishing her graduate degree in clinical psychology. We ate at a vegan restaurant and caught up and felt comfortable enough to open up about life and experiences.

They even shared their cake with me, and pulled it away when I asked for help to stop. It felt good to stop.

I live to Eat

2010-10-03T20:32:00.006-04:00

This month has been all about eating. Literally. In the past month, it's been my major focus, and I feel great. It's such a gift to be able to spend a month getting to know what truly works for my body. One word to sum it up: FERMENTATION. It's been my golden key to being able to eat like a semi normal human being again.

For the past year or so, I've primarily lived on raw foods and fresh pressed or squeezed vegetable juices. This was all in an attempt to obtain some semblance of a normal digestive system. Mine was sluggish, if not altogether nonexistent. I relied on colon hydrotherapy to obtain some form of relief. I had been to the best GI Dr. in NYC, I had antibiotics, Magnesium Citrate, Fish Oil, you name it. I had a nutritionist, took the strongest probiotics in the country. I ate like a cow. A grass fed cow. More green vegetables than you could imagine! I even had a cat scan, which basically showed I was "full of it".

Every time I ate anything more than a light salad, I felt exhausted. Meat and eggs? Forget it. My body was working so hard to digest that it felt like the process took away all the oxygen in my system. I would literally crash.

In the past month, my number one job has been to obtain wellness. A place of peace and balance. I'm not levitating on a cloud yet, but I'm finding my way.

The first couple weeks were a nightmare, my body practically had an adverse reaction to such intense dry heat. I was swollen like a water balloon. Nothing fit. I couldn't sleep, but I felt so tired. My friends reassured me that uprooting my life and leaving my beloved city behind might cause me to feel a little "carby", and to give it time. One said just walk a lot and drink a lot of water- the Pacific is different than the Atlantic, and desert air takes a lot out of you. My body was probably holding on to its fluid afraid that it'd need it in case of drought.

So I drank water. And drank. I've been drinking about a gallon a day easily.

I started exploring the Farmer's Markets, and talking to various vendors. One of my favorites is Organic Pastures Raw Dairy I've started drinking Raw Qephor as a way to add important cultures to my diet.

Also, today I met an extaordinary man, Jack Bezian of Bezian's Bakery . He really broke it down for me, as to what's gluten, what's good for you, how to prepare eggs (one TBS of water per white, plus a dash of sea salt- egg whites are glutenous!), how to eat animal protein (raw, after it's been frozen for 10 days!), how there's cholesterol in our brains, what causes crohns and cancer, how to tell if a food is good for your specific body or not (take your pulse, eat the food, take your pulse 15 minutes later- if it's beating faster, that's not a food your body readily accepts), always eat tropical fruit (papaya, mango, kiwi- these won't set in jello because (oh, crap I forget- protein inhibitor?).

Anyway, the point is. I ate a garlic and chive sourdough and cultured goat cheese sandwich today and feel effin AMAZING, dammit! AMAZING!

I'm also reading two books: Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, and MIreille Guiliono's French Women Don't Get Fat .

The former gives in depth analysis about our food system (as of now, I'm reading all about the corn industry) and the latter celebrates the pleasures of food, wine, herbs and all good things in life in moderation. It's about lifestyle.

I'll have to say, not having a car in LA has left me fit and happy. Between biking, hiking and a lot of Anusara Yoga , Stella's finally getting her groove.

Exploring

2010-09-23T21:50:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was glorious. The sun wasn't shining. For a gal who calls anything below 70 degrees winter, I have to admit that the sun is pretty damn strong here. I feel my face crackling even with SPF 70 slathered all over it, like a titanium dioxide mime, only I'm the only female this season to not be wearing stripes. I have an aversion to horizontal lines.

So. Yesterday. After some serious yoga and lunch, I walked to Barnsdall Art Park. Trust me, this website does not do it justice. Absolutely amazing views of the city, and real grass to lay upon. Cute chairs- the kind you make from champagne corks- everywhere. Plus, there's a museum, a theater, and a Frank Lloyd Wright home- Hollyhock. It was a Wednesday late-late afternoon, so all the facilities were closed. However, there was a Farmer's Market, so I ate an early dinner watching tumblers, paying distant respects to the Hollywood sign, and enjoying the afternoon breeze.

....And We're Back

2010-09-21T19:54:00.003-04:00

It's been awhile since I've felt a.o.k. to blog about life. Many, many changes have happened since I last truly spoke. Well, I attempted to speak through photos and poems. An artist will find any means possible to express herself, even if she can't find the words.

I thought about writing this all in some form of declarative love letter to New York and her mighty inhabitants, but it sounded lofty and I felt like Evita reading it. Let's just say, I'm lucky enough to know real love and real magic. Thank you for raising me.

-------------

I was living in Hipsterville, USA (Williamsburg, Brooklyn) with my boyfriend. Although we made a positive impact upon each other's lives, it ultimately didn't work out. Not for lack of trying. Two years of trying. We lived together for a couple of months while I prepped to make a move to LA, thanks to my generous old roommate, who offered me her place in the Silverlake neighborhood of LA (Hipsterville West) for a couple of months while she was away on a shoot. She made the offer a couple of years ago, however my boss at the cancer charity at the time was very ill, and I wanted to make sure that things didn't fall apart if he passed away. Things were in good hands this time around, and I kept thinking, second chances are rare. I also couldn't fathom starting over yet again in a town that already gave me nine lives. So, here I am, Hipsterville transplant, writing in a coffee shop (Intelligentsia. Hipsterville) for the first time in ages.

Honestly, the only reason why I'm even writing is because I rarely talk anymore. I've been a silent, celibate, hipster monk who notices the trees, and occasionally picks figs off of them. I thought that was a pretty cool thing, and then I learned that that's what Hipsters do. There's a Hipster website for it: Fallen Fruit

I'm not a hipster. I'm not. Even though I was a lead in a feature, UPSTATE, which played at the Los Angeles Film Festival this year. Moving Pictures flat out called my character an ex-hipster. Ex. Don't let my converse fool you, I'm not afraid of wearing a fanny pack in a non ironic way.

Oh crap I just saw a middle aged woman dressed like a 24 yr old vintage baby doll dress wearing girl. Now THAT'S a hipster!

Soon!

2010-08-20T11:28:00.000-04:00

Some Day You Will Remember This

2010-07-10T10:51:00.001-04:00

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

Tsitsit #iphoneography

2010-06-18T12:20:00.001-04:00

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

Vincent Mikiel's Photos (a proud daughter showing off her talented dad)

2010-06-01T23:14:00.001-04:00

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

UPSTATE Trailer

2010-05-09T08:12:00.002-04:00

UPSATE is heading to the Los Angeles Film Festival. We're headed to LA next month. They're running a kickstarter campaign for finishing funds (ah, the trials and tribulations of indie film). You can watch the trailer via the link!

http://kck.st/a2m3zE

iPhoneography blogs

2010-05-07T07:23:00.005-04:00

Featured Artist

This month my iPhone photos are the featured spotlight on a great blog dedicated to iPhone photography, PIxels at an Exhibition

Marty Yawnick of Life in Lofi, another amazing blog, wrote a few words as well.

Thanks to both Knox and Marty for their kind words!

Pixels at an Exhibition
http://pixelsatanexhibition.com/articles/featured-artist-for-may-suzan-mikiel-kennedy/

Life in LoFi
http://lifeinlofi.com/2010/05/03/pixelex-featured-artist-suzan-mikiel-kennedy/

LAX > JFK

2010-03-23T20:29:00.004-04:00

Engines digest
Time gains weight
And covers her light
With the towel of night
Littered
With speckles of sun.

Van Joe #iphoneography

2010-03-15T11:25:00.001-04:00

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

Birds Rock

2010-03-12T11:52:00.001-05:00

Magnolias

2010-03-03T22:41:00.005-05:00

Ten gallons of black poured over her memories.

Grace face wouldn't join her for a walk, so she wore glasses like her mother and her mother's mother before her. The one who was tricked by a bear.

She walked amongst the quarters looking at magnolia trees. A little glimpse of life and sky rising from the citrus scent of forget the night. Then she dragged her hem along the warehouses to look at pretty Pictures in windows. Her mind walked through the glass and took a cold soul shower. Wake up. Wake up. Lattes don't grow on trees.

As she crossed the main drag she saw a cherry bomb explode along avoidance street and vowed to never trust again. A bear skin rug is scarier than a bear. Empty. It's empty.

Happy Paczki Day! #iphoneography #paczki

2010-02-15T23:21:00.001-05:00

Sent from my iPhone

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

Happy Valentine's Day ( #iphoneography #heart #valentinesday )

2010-02-11T21:54:00.001-05:00

Sent from my iPhone

Posted via email from Suzan's posterous

Sometimes, I Called Him Daddy

2010-01-10T10:18:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I called him Daddy.
We were born of the same mind.
Sometimes he thought I was invisible.
Sometimes we shared the same thoughts.
Sometimes,
I made him see the world a little differently.
Sometimes we didn't talk.
We just watched the earth's rotational axis at 23.5 degrees,
or felt the sun make rainbows on our faces.
I remember his hair.

The Heavens Cried Upon Your Voice

2010-01-07T23:32:00.003-05:00

I darted ahead of you, just before the bridge, half hoping you'd catch me, half hoping you wouldn't. It didn't matter either way. As you stubbed out your cigarette, I heard you call my name with a sweet siren sing song. The tug of tease and love. I turned around and watched you drown as the Heavens cried upon your voice. Your sweet Elvis voice. Angel groupies shed large tears- like buckets hiding atop door frames anticipating laughter. And your body. Your voice. Your hair. Your stubbing shoe dissolved and blended into the everyday. Only your black scarf remains. Sea serpent with tentacled fringe gasping for air, cemented by saltwater. Now the only sound I hear is the keen of a seagull searching for harmony. Sing Song Sigh. The bridge is lonely when you don't stop to point. The cold air glistens my cheek. I'll try not to step on your scarf next time I dart by.

City Hall

2009-12-22T16:40:00.003-05:00

Neither time nor place matter
If I hold out my hand
If I hold my head down
With you
I fly

#7s Love

2009-12-18T01:03:00.001-05:00

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#7s Revive

2009-12-18T00:52:00.001-05:00

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#7s See

2009-12-18T00:23:00.001-05:00

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#7s Listen

2009-12-18T00:21:00.001-05:00

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#7s Cross

2009-12-18T00:01:00.001-05:00

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#7s Reflect

2009-12-17T23:57:00.001-05:00

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#7s Train Nurture

2009-12-17T23:55:00.001-05:00

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In the Dark

2009-12-12T17:21:00.002-05:00

In the dark
I glow for you
Cut my limb
I stand for you
Your love is the light
Of a dark, dark, night
I'm blind
Without you.

Company Man

2009-11-29T11:50:00.002-05:00

You think today is like any other day. You're in your universe, heading towards your desk, immersed in your future. Little do you realize that today, you are blessed.

New York, NY

Meanings

2009-11-24T00:05:00.003-05:00

Stretch, Rest, Reflect. Three birds offer good advice upon the impending rain. They each behave differently upon the lines of communication and energy. The sky darkens and the birds remain externally motionless in a quiet splotch of Queens.

Pondering the Market

2009-11-11T15:23:00.000-05:00

Dull Botero body except for shining brass where his fingers laughed.
Jagged journey down
where food is sold and eaten by the pound
and people talk on cellphones about what kind of rice to buy
and fish and fowl and fruit converge with grains and guarantees.
Crackers.
I sit and eat another pound.
I wonder why I'm here
and you're not.

Links, Links, Links

2009-08-19T13:07:00.005-04:00

Well, thanks to the requests of facebook friends, I've finally created the iPhone blogs:

Ladies Cease To Pause and Hello I Photo. Just follow the links on the side to check them out.

I also made a special guest blog appearance on MizzFit.com!

Did I mention that I ran the New York City Half Marathon??? Well, I did!! Check MizzFit for a recap!

Finally, I'm shooting an indie feature film for two weeks upstate in Hudson, New York. Pretty excited- everyone involved is way up there in the amazing factor. Tres Cool. Can't wait!

Lots of Love,
Suz

Confusion on the Seven Train

2009-06-01T18:56:00.003-04:00

Boy:So then she tells me that she's back, but she has to get her hair done, her eyebrows done, her nails done, and new flip flops. I'm like, you've been gone for months and I'm not the first thing you want to do? I mean, see?

Girl: ...yeah...that's a little weird.

Boy: Three months without her hair being done and she can't wait one more day? How do you think that makes me feel?

Girl: ...well, I would feel like she doesn't really care about me. If you were my boyfriend, I'd want to see you right away.

Boy: Yeah. That's what I'm saying and shit. I'm gonna dump that bitch to the street.

they exchange a glance

Boy: Nah, probably not, but I'm just sayin'!

Girl: This is our stop.

Outlet Battle

2009-05-28T16:16:00.003-04:00

-Hello, handsome

-Why, hello Lil' Lady?

-That's a mighty big plug. What brings you to this one socket town?

-I'm just lookin' to use this here lassoo to double my wattage.

-Careful, pardner. Looks like you covered in the last district.

-Them's mighty sharp words for pretty porcelain to be usin'

-I just switch them as I see them. I switch them as I see them.

Seven Train Goddess

2009-05-21T14:34:00.003-04:00

Unraveled friendship bracelets woven through her soft, long, childish gray hair. Springtime greens and blue heralding peace on a sunny morn. Granddaughter helped her up the subway stairs, which prove to be less sturdy than small village mountains in native Nepal. Her goodness circled her shorted breath as the Seven Train parted its commuter cargo and, magically, a seat appeared. She held her hands together and spread blessings more beautiful the the morning Times.

Collage

2009-05-20T15:53:00.004-04:00

Past the banana cart, art brushes with architecture below the belt while homeless temporary hipster imposes backpack/canteen shadows. Prize fighters are torn down one way or another. The very next day the Polish mafia peeled away the sunshine and his oatmeal-paste skin. Only the Z-word remains.

rack

2009-05-15T11:56:00.002-04:00

we joined the army while shopping for sweaters at express.
you rail thin. me stubbornly strong like a blowfish. before you left to be weighed, you asked the recruitment ranger if it was for cosmetic purposes. she looked up and pointed to a turquoise miniskirt. in a flash i saw a large metal pole reach for it. like changing light. we looked at each other. finally. real glycerin walked down our red faces. our plastic hands let go of clearance. sails. i hope i look pretty with a shaved head, i thought, as i watched you dance away.

measured love

2009-03-13T17:02:00.004-04:00

his right hand
index one inch shorter
scallop nail reclaiming severed tip,
sprayed paint on naked tackle.

silver.

like flying scales of real perch confetti
(before the guts came out)
i scream and run away from
slimy, smelly rainbowed

silver.

like his eyes on an overcast day.
fixed on creation.
while cluttered renaissance basement undulates
with homemade wine, wood, meat, dried flowers, bears and nautical clocks.
soldered designs next to helmet and jig saw, puzzles. pictures of peonies and hybrid trees.

he made his own apples. eden overflows.
envelopes grandma's crystal dress, hanging midwire, wrapped
in plastic thinner than carpet and couch protectors.
did she wear that one when she met my mom?

pierogies grow on trees down here.
kielbasa fills up insides.
the silver grinder circles on.

later we play baseball.

later we fish along the docks.

later we watch the sun

inch.

2009-02-28T10:43:00.001-05:00

Backseat from Carina Round on Vimeo.

Come and find me

2009-02-25T15:02:00.001-05:00

Newsflash

2009-01-22T18:28:00.003-05:00

Okay, so the villanelle structure needs a little refining. Who knew?!?

Anyway, quick update:

The indie movie I had a wee part in, Children of Invention, has been playing at Sundance this week.

Also, if you happen to watch Law and Order, I am the Jury Foreperson on January 28th!

I'm sure my Grandma will have half of the senior citizens in Warren, Michigan watching!

And... love to Jacob. Love to Jacob, love to Jacob.

That's it. For now.

Formal Birthday Poetry- Losing My Marble

2009-01-14T03:39:00.004-05:00

Hazen would be eight today. His favorite number. Early this evening (it's morning now), I attended a Patient Narrative Oncology Workshop that Team Continuum, the charity I work for sponsors. Patients, Caregivers, Doctors, Social Workers, Hospital Staff all get together to discuss literary works of various styles, structures and topics. We begin the session over sandwiches (or in my case salad) and peer socialization as we identify frustrations, experiences, exchange support and advice. We end the session with 10 minutes of writing, then have the option to share what we wrote.

Today we had the option to follow a couple different forms, the gentlest suggestion being to follow the style of Tim O'Brien in a passage we read from "The Things They Carried". Instead, I opted to attempt a poem in the villanelle form.

Instead of regurgitating an explanation at nearly 4am, I'll proceed to cut and paste:

Jump to: navigation, search
Sister project Look up villanelle in
Wiktionary, the free dictionary.

A villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models.[1] A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain. [2]

(i love you wiki)

I think I was supposed to keep the same refrain, but oh well, here it is uncensored:

lellow- villanelle

This is my present to you
It’s almost most like the magic you love, you know
This is my present to you

They’re dedicating a book to you
About rainbows, colors, and slimy things that grow
I can’t wait to see the color blue

Remember when the hot air balloon flew?
We might do that tomorrow. In New Jersey! Don’t yet know.
You said it’s too noisy. That’s true.

This is my present to you
Like an old dandelion you pick and wish and blow
Flying away to something new

I am present because of you
When you said hello, time began to flow
It all makes sense because of you

I wake and see your reflection in the dew
Of morning blades of green and lellow
When you left, we weren’t through
That’s why you’re always with me and me with you.

And then, we were asked to describe what the experience was like- to write within the constructs of a rigid form.

And this is what I wrote:

When dealing with overwhelming emotions, it can be too much to express and feel at once, as though if you felt it or said it all, you might combust.
Writing in a specific form helped draw out the ability to express these difficult emotions. Attempts to follow a structure helped the pressure valve release for various moments before shutting off again. So to have the cumulative releases, the idea is expressed.

I'm trying to to combust today, and keep his happy laugh inside my heart- like a shiny marble a child holds in his sleep.

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/hazen

Independence Under Construction

2008-12-22T00:27:00.004-05:00

You are never alone

2008-12-22T00:23:00.001-05:00

Beauty Encounter

2008-11-27T11:09:00.007-05:00

I was early for dinner, so I stopped by Lord and Taylor to scout out brown boots. I need a classic pair for dresses and jeans. My two current pairs- Birkenstock and Ashe, are very specific to crunchy comfort or cowgirl chic...pardner.

After honing in a pair of flat heeled Frye's, and a pair of MaxStudio's, I began my exit. It's November 25th, and I wouldn't dare be so frivolous as to actually buy boots before Thanksgiving. Hell, to be honest, I'll probably wait until after New Years, in hopes that they will still have my size at a third of the current price.

To exit Lord and Taylor, you have to pass by or through the groundlings. The makeup department. No other department has to work so hard to hock their wares on soap boxes like a medicine show. And I fall for it every time. Keeping my head down, examining my sneakers and imagining discounted four hundred dollar boots on them, I made a B line.

"I know you want to get your makeup done and show off them beautiful eyes." Beautiful eyes? I looked up.

There stood Rhonadendrum, a decidedly truly female Two Minute Makeover Artist, almost six feet high, with an orange 80s wedge weave, working at the Estee Lauder for the holiday season. With very little obligatory cajoling, I acquiesced. It's part of standard makeover procedure. I insist I don't want to change although I'm secretly curious, they insist I'll look great even though they secretly don't know what the hell they're going to do.

"I see amethyst jewels on you," Rhonadendrum said as she scratched her weave with her three-inch-long acrylic black,red, white and cubic zirconia nails. She sat me down on a high back stool, using her nails as a weapon of detention.

"Nothing too dark," I say," I don't like to wear a lot of makeup."

"Okay, no problem."

At this precise moment, she impales my lower eyelids with purple eyeliner, then rubs so much shadow on,that I look like I should order uncooked steak for dinner.

After the makeover, I thank her, and Rhonadendrum scratches and asks if I want to buy anything. I kindly tell her no, and she makes sure I remember her name, and to send people her way.

There are quite a few people I would love to send her way.

I'm not a sucker. I'm really not. It's just that I have a certain affinity for Lord and Taylor beauty counters. Back when I first moved to New York, I had a difficult time making the transition. I was tense, unhappy, alone, on the verge of overweight, and had a perm that would make poodles run away in order to save themselves from the same fate that some brown bastard must have incurred. I had no idea what I was doing in life, was tired to working so hard for so little, and was in a general state of perma-malaise. One day I walked into Lord and Taylor. I don't know why. Nostalgia, I guess. My mother was a shopaholic, so department stores feel like nurseries to me.

Back then, the Cosmetics Department at Lord and Taylor was more spread out. As troddled to the escalator, a woman with a heavy New Yorkese accent called out to me.

"THIS PRODUCT IS GOING TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE!"

Her name was Victoria. She wore her brown highlighted locks piled on top of her head. Maroon lipstick. Black suit. Olive skin. She felt oddly familiar. An angel bearing gifts of transformation for the low price of $105.99.

Victoria was working the Orlane counter, a French company dedicated more to skin care vs. skin showmanship. We talked. We talked about how difficult it can be to move to New York. We talked about aspirations, about ways to take care of yourself. We talked about forming good habits and breaking bad.

As she applied creams, toners, and lotions to my face, I could feel the agonizing steam up pent up tension release from each pore. All the worry went away. Pent up anxiety of making it released in tear formation. The petechiae on my skin, caused by stress induced vomiting, felt soothed by her cotton balls.

I was reluctant to spend $105.99 for three products. But I did. And I began to share Victoria's words of wisdom with my fellow lost transplants. Our stress and zits began to fade away.

My life did change. I began to feel happier, more confident, and most importantly, more comfortable in my own skin. Since then I've moved on to other brands, until finally settling upon an assortment of all natural vegan products, as I would like my skincare regime to change others' lives as well.

To this day, however, I can't resist the brush of chance at Lord and Taylor's, not out of needing huge change, but out of grateful respect for two strangers giving each other a change to make a difference at a beauty counter.

Lunch

2008-09-13T16:18:00.003-04:00

A giant vat of vegetables to serve two pronged purp-I: sustain and eliminate. Celery, pumpkin seeds, cilantro, alfalfa, kale, avocado, parsley, broccoli, and chard, oh, no chard the chard is yellow. Not rescued in time from the home of broken relationships (not mine). One day you're buying tofurkey together, the next day your reality has changed. Like the conveyer belt at the dry cleaners. With antiseptic (what an awful crap word) familiarity one "thwwwwwwp" changes what's in front of you. At least it's common knowledge that $7.50 for a dress is $7.50 for a dress. No matter how crazy life gets.

When cutting aforementioned vegetables, a third land on the floor. It's a talent of indescribable proportions- larger than the vat. To be able to toss like a flower girl physical evidence of internal chaos at the calmest of times. The happiest of times, the most peaceful of times. Evidence that there is another realm of calmness. Happiness. Peace...ness. A place of quiet where dogs don't feast on kale by chance. A place where intention and purpose aren't hoarded, nor diffused. A place where subject matter goes beyond all things feminine.

Scenes From My Room

2008-09-06T16:53:00.002-04:00

And it pours . A pitcher. From somewhere. With a very wide lip. Stocked in some fridge. In the cycle kitchen. Of some understood concept. Whether it’s science or God or just because. It is understood that she lied. Tadpoles don’t rise. It doesn’t rain frogs. Captions under pictures are meant to be read.

Ladders with laundry. Naked with lines. Low slate garages. Hibiscus too week. To carry hopping bird. Left over from some suet party. Too late for excuses. Lampshades are meant to illuminate.

A village of shoes. Climb regressive closet door. Near peg board with buttons. Postcards. Wishes. Dreams for the next few days.

Water drops on healing books. Torn screen. Mound of clothes. Blue Wall. That picture. That other one. My pink toes.

the other drops

2008-07-06T22:33:00.002-04:00

i really have nothing to say
in a happy sort of way
well...
not high.
nor low.
just just.
here.
really here.
and that's cool.
it's now.
wading in now.
as i don't float.
too impatient.
no fear.
in walking.
no matter.
how strong.
the current.
maybe.
there's nothing to say.
now.
just walking.
no fear.
of drowning.
did i mention i don't float?
took off my shoes.
and got a grip.
in the concrete sand.
a ripple is just just.
a ripple.
a wave.
from far away.
spread thin along wading.
never gone.
just just.
blending with the other drops.

Yael Naim- Puppet

2008-06-20T10:26:00.002-04:00

She's saying Hey, son, but to me it sounds like his name.

PKinG - Mother ( original song )

2008-05-12T10:11:00.001-04:00

I couldn't find my phone yesterday. Then this video came on out of the blue. I found it. Thanks, Hazie.

Gesundheit

2008-03-30T23:56:00.003-04:00

i feel a pseudonym coming on.
so i take some sudafed to relive the symptoms.
and some nepalese chicken soup.
where spiritual world music plays.
and people on video screens shake their fingers NO.
and people on video screens nod their heads YES.
with hands thumping hearts.
tears seasoned my noodles.
and in the pool i wander.
through yesterday.
through today.
maybe the soup will heal.
tomorrow.

2008-02-11T01:20:00.001-05:00

I know, I know. Many of you said this would happen. Blogger burn out. Or in my case, gradual fizzle...once you enter the realm of fractured scattered poetry, it's hard to be quirky. BUT I will soon start a blog about New York, and rediscovering my love for this town.

In the meantime, I've taken up temporary residence in Queens! Sometimes you have to step off the island to think. I'm not a Buddhist, crawl in a cave type, so Sunnyside will have to suffice. Strange. Good food. Strange. It'll all work out. It always does. Doesn't it?

2008-01-14T11:52:00.001-05:00

Happy Birthday. Thank you for showing me the value and meaning of love. I miss you, and I love you more than anything. I always will. It's all so silly without you, so much so, that I'll still always be your clown. You are magic, and I am amazed everyday by your beauty. Our eyes are the same shape. I hope we see the same things through them.

Love You. Love Me.

P.S. You're right, surfing is fun.

Unfinished

2007-12-10T01:04:00.000-05:00

I think I finally understand why comedians can be so fighting-for-life funny. Angry funny. Fuck you I've been through enough shit funny. It's either stand up hear and make you people laugh, or jump off the Brooklyn Bridge funny. I get it now. Unfortunately, due to my Pollyanna nature (despite my newfound sarcastic bitchy tonality), it took an event that goes beyond merely life altering for me to grasp a glimmer of comprehension in this matter. I lost my son. Not funny. In no way is there any sort of humor in that. Yes, I lose my phone, my keys, my socks at the gym, but...still not funny. No joke. No smile. Nothing. Yet... the need to laugh, days after his death. I swear to g-d (it's chanukah, after all) Everybody Loves Raymond saved my life. Comedy created a sensation. A brief feeling that was reminiscent of living. But like any external force of life, there's a bigger need for more of that fix. Soon, I tore through Arrested Development, The Office, Extras, various movies (about 60 or so), a random Susan Jane Gillman book, and then the crack of all crack series, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Curb is the kind of comedy that lets dramatic tension wiggle up and down your gut. Watching the masters, I feel their neurosis. Shelly Berman, who lost his 12-year-old son to cancer, played Larry's father. He was kind enough to respond to an email I sent him early on.

2007-11-29T02:20:00.001-05:00

No idea how to breathe life into letters after talking about moving on without. Breath. But time stopped stopping. The seasons keep changing. And somehow, somewhere I realize that no matter how fast I run or how hard I try, or how tight I shut my eyes, there's no going back. People constantly tell me how strong I am. I guess in theory, if that which does not kill one makes one stronger, at this point in life, I'm a tough cookie. But, compared to many others, I don't think I'm that tough. Obnoxious, at times, yes. Strong, I dunno. Not really. Ready. Yes. Ready. Yes.

buttercups

2007-11-01T05:15:00.000-04:00

his breath was like buttercups.
the first and last.
inbetween there was ketchup and pumpkin flavored
anything.
inbetween
the first and last
we made memories.
an installation of artistic dimensions.
i hang them here.
in my mind
with magnets
that spell
his beautiful name.
no candles will be blown today.
no celebrations.
yet the sea waves confetti
and the sun and mist play.
there is a spectrum
of varying dimensions.
some are seen.
and some exsist
naked
to the human
i.

ghetto kite

2007-10-19T15:41:00.000-04:00

another night
another ghetto kite
popping out of nowhere
bodega bag
acting clownish
to pack the purchase
of my sullen mood
the wind spins it
like a change of season
like change
thrown into a plastic bag
that doubles as
a ghetto kite
bodega entertainment
out
of
nowhere

listening

2007-10-13T21:29:00.000-04:00

i hear things now.
where silence darted slowly
where thoughts would slap
there are layers of happy
sounds
filling
between times
of sorrow.
and on those waves i dance
and spin
and walk
and sit
and heave
and breathe.

madison avenue

2007-10-11T15:25:00.000-04:00

I saw a plastic bag commit suicide
from the 25th floor
anticipating
smacking ground
it softly floated
along an invisible line
before landing
in a rainy basket.
the sky turned white
the pigeons cried
and the procession
on madison avenue
knocked umbrellas about
and thought
"what a waste".

star

2007-10-01T00:04:00.000-04:00

congratulations
the light paints
truth
from far away
i clap
for you
from far away
congratulations
you are
a star
dead dust
a million miles away

the world revolves around you

2007-09-26T09:06:00.001-04:00

the bright sun catches night's shadows.
the outline of your face
is there
stretched along
some sidewalk
somewhere
fighting to run away
from the scrutinizing
light.

grapefruit

2007-09-24T23:51:00.000-04:00

one night i will cough a grapefruit
and on that night
i will not think
there is a grapefruit in my throat
and i will have dreams
that hazen finally ate fruit
and maybe then
i will feel like
i was a good mom

until that night
i keep the grapefruit
in my throat
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
and smile
and wish
and wish
and wish
and wish
for a spoon.

subway

2007-09-15T15:29:00.000-04:00

on the e train our car races the a
inches away
trusting the tracks
rats scatter
etched glass graffiti casts shadows on each

on the f train our car hears a
saxophone solo
dancing notes skip
change jingles
along the laps of passengers

crossing 57th street

2007-09-07T11:23:00.000-04:00

the lady on the bike
crossing 57th street said,
you dropped your wallet!
sir! sir!
the walletless man
crossing 57th street turned
back and picked it up.
all the while staring at a bus,
stopped inches away
on hind wheels
like a tamed dragon.

people blinked in time with
the pulsing red hand.
a metronome warning
as traffic moved on.
the man proceeded
to walk again.
full of money, life,
and a small smile.

hell's kitchen

2007-09-04T21:39:00.000-04:00

in my neighborhood
rush hour includes horses and carraiges.
in my neighborhood
you are bound to see a movie being made.
in my neighborhood
the bodega gives you a deal once they know you.
in my neighborhood
i pass by a: gay bar, church, cafe, thai restaurant, falafel house
on the same block,
on the same side of the street
and they all have meaning,
and i wave,
and they wave back
and i realize
this is what it means to live
in a neighborhood.

Sights on Broome

2007-09-02T11:48:00.001-04:00

the old woman squats
on broome street
taking her stick
she evens the dents in cans
only to have them squashed
for a nickle a shot
and do it all over again

Thoughts Walking Home On Tenth Avenue

2007-09-02T03:47:00.000-04:00

rhinestone tiaras
quiet streets
yesterday's bicycle
today's gold lame belt
waiting
changing
...clothes.
really?
more of the same
glittering lights
empty reasoning
tiny glimpses
of what you were
so lucky
people would kill
to never have
glimpses
of who you are
so lucky
always be
real.
really?
Tenth Avenue queens
parading under streetlights
taxi music accompanies
their walk.
milestones celebrated
empty bags
grinding teeth
empty eyes
wide with white
searching empty
exchanges
searching
definining
making
sense.
really?
of...
it all.
makes sense
of...
it all.
it all
makes
circles
on quiet streets
it all...
was...
it...
is...
it...
was...
it...
is ...
it...
...shit...

How Michiganders Make Brownies

2007-08-31T23:59:00.001-04:00

Always with a Midwestern sensibility....

Friends

2007-08-27T00:32:00.000-04:00

Ricky and Georgi came in from Houston this weekend. They brought their little girl Ginger, 3, who was born just up the avenue at St. Luke's, two months premature. I was the first person to see her two pound body, and the first person to witness her dad hold her. Hazen, Scott and I were on our way to the Berkshires when we got the call that Georgi had the baby early. We drove right to the hospital, and came through the doors with presents and cheesecake. Hazen was so excited to see Ginger. We didn't really process that she was in the NICU, and no children were allowed. Still, he accompanied us to the cafeteria, and we taste tasted the cheesecake before we gave it to Rick. He had so much love and concern for everyone. And patience. Lots of patience. After our visit, we proceeded with our trip and had a great weekend hiking and visiting various towns.

Today Scott gave Ginger some special Hazen mementos. Also, Ricky, Justin and Scott moved some boxes of things we can't part with to storage. Ginger played with Bus and even wore a tie dye t shirt that Hazen helped make. We all walked down to meet Stefanie and Michael for dinner and Ginger held on to a Scooby Doo stuffed animal. A new one that someone gave Hazen. It's a twin of his favorite one that now sits in the window. There's that grapefruit in the throat again. I'm happy and longing at once. I'm sure there's a more prophetic way to explain, but I'm afraid my tears will instigate my immediate electrocution as I sit here with this laptop. That's why I squeeze them out a little at a time.

This week Ginger and her beautiful parents will go up to the Berkshires. It's one of those wonderful circles. Hazen's favorite shape.

The race

2007-08-26T10:45:00.000-04:00

I don't read enough.
I read into too much.
That's why friends press blinders at the gate.

What's the race?
I don't know.
So how am I going to win?

Sanely crazy
Sadly happy
Dreaming tears
Broken fears
Only to be replaced
By new ones
Only to be replaced
By new ones
Only to be replaced
By new ones

Thoughts keep drifting
Mind is shifting
And where it stops is anybody's guess.
Don't read into this.
Wear your blinders
This race has lasted too long.
And I know.
I know.
I know.

A wreath of roses has been mangled
I cannot tell
who won

Moving on Up

2007-08-19T17:16:00.000-04:00

Well the day finally arrived. It's been dark for so long. As hard as it is to watch the blinding light through our swollen, tired eyes, now is the time to see. We moved apartments on Thursday, and today we packed up a few keepsake boxes from Hazen's room, then invited our neighborhood friends to come over and take what they want for their children. We'd rather know that Hazen's friends are enjoying his things, then have them sit in a charity shop. As Scott said, Hazen breathed so much life into everything he touched. It's as if this immaterial objects are endowed with his energy. His love. His humor. His intelligence. His unique way of looking at the world. His wonder. His beauty.
Him.
He was our everything, and we are lost without him. Who knows what the future holds, but we know it holds something, because we both would have done anything to trade places with him. But at the same time, we know he's happy, wherever he is. He is everywhere. And it is much harder to be here on Earth without him, than it is for him to be limitless. His physical ability finally matches his spirit. In that, we take comfort.

I'm not big on the pronoun "we". I'm a very singular, stubborn soul. But I am so grateful to have known the true meaning of "we". Even if it was only a blip.
Blip.
That's a funny word.
Hazen would have liked that.

Seattle and Pain in the Grass

2007-08-12T02:06:00.000-04:00

Marlina and I are in Seattle. We spent today working a heavy metal festival called Pain in the Grass. Several bands played, including Buck Cherry, Candlebox, Godsmack, and more. It was interesting to see things from behind the scenes. The reason we came out here is to represent Team Continuum, the charity I have officially been working for. It's been a great experience, and we'll most likely be working other great concerts in the future.

After the concert, Marlina and I ate at a fantastic sushi restarurant. We ordered toro, which made the chef and owner very excited, and ended up with the star treatment. Marlina and had to psyche each other up to eat all the delicious appetizers and rolls, and drink all the sake that they sent over gratis. I ended up laughing so hard at one point, sake and rice started coming out of my nose.

The air here is incredible here. Like velvet.

Brief Update

2007-08-08T01:37:00.001-04:00

Haven't been posting much...obviously. Sometimes the words get stuck somewhere between thoughts and the throat. Sometimes they just have to live a little, then trail off to be forgotten. Sometimes words don't reflect like fluid water, but freeze like chards of ice.

Things are reasonable well here. I had the great pleasure of finally meeting Isabelle Hazen (Zaz). She likes music and loves to laugh. Her spirit is full of happiness, and she's going to have a wonderful life. It's astonishing to see that this tiny person, barely three months old, is fully formed. She already is who she is. I think we all are at that age. If only we could hold on to the pureness of infantile memory. Laura, Zaz's mom, looks amazing. Laura is the woman who took charge coordinating our entire community to feed us dinner for the two years Hazen was in treatment. Without her and our community, we wouldn't bother to eat, nor would we have energy to provide round the clock care for Hazen. We will always be grateful to her and everyone who made such a difference in our lives. Although it's so hard on a daily basis to deal with losing the person I loved most in this world, it's a comfort to always know how he was selflessly cared for by an entire community full of love. All in all, it was a happy reunion of sorts. I think Hazen would be happy to share his name with such an incredible family. I know I am.

Radiohead - Black Star (Live 1994)

2007-07-24T01:23:00.001-04:00

I listened to Gillian Welch and David Rawlings play this song, then my girlfriend pointed out that it's a Radiohead cover. Didn't even know about Radiohead. So much to learn! I think this is a beautiful song.

Day to Day

2007-07-09T23:30:00.000-04:00

Ouch. Gave Bus the Cat a bath tonight. My legs look like my razor blade attacked me. In the end, though, he actually enjoyed it.
We're moving to 51st Street in a week and a half (gulp!). That'll be strange, living closer to harder memories to walk through. Plus, packing all of Hazen's things. Hearing his voice with all he played with. I miss him. My best friend.
I'm working now. At first there wasn't much to do, as I sort of eased into the job. But now, I'll be coordinating the athletes running the Chicago marathon. Also heading to Tacoma, WA next month to work a charity event. It's a heavy metal concert with a band called...godsmack...whoo hoo. Our tent will most likely be far from the stage, but I'll bring earplugs just in case :)
Also, I'm working on some Arkadina scenes for an HB presentation. It goes up in a couple weeks. Nice to get an early start an her.

Cafe Gitane

2007-07-06T18:49:00.000-04:00

today is different
than yesterday
today is a breath
from yesterday's hold
today i'm eating
rose petals
and minted yogurt
today i understand