it's not me, it's you.

Three cancellations have cleared my Thursday. Two excuses and a reason.

two told me: “Robin, I don’t want to get attached, it’s not you, it’s me.”

So here I sit, at the ocean’s edge, watching families pack baskets and fold beach towels by the corners. How odd I must seem: my slacks, my sunglasses, my book.

I am the leper longing for colony. I am the leper priests whisper at through walls. Is this what disappearing is? Watching those I love turn inward, turn away, heads lowered and eyes cast down? Have I become memory? I’m here! I want to scream, shaking shoulders, spitting on shoes. But I vanish. Miserably, in an ugly way - first my skin, then my nerves - my limbs, my toes, and my eyes.

I root my foot in the sand, I inurn my toes in a sandy crypt.

So here I sit: Franz Wright, me, and the California light: burning itself from the edges, in.

monday night, family night.

sarah.

the beginning of the end. i want to remember it all, but i can't, and i won't - but i will try.

my mother would have seen this:

Robin is smacking her gums at a hand mirror. She hunches over, back to us, in the middle of her room. Her smurf sized body curves like the shell of a snail. The popping is loud, quick, and jarring.

“La, la, la, la,” smack, “la.”

Beside her my overturned purse spills tape, lipstick, pennies and an orange across the carpet.

I look at Robert. "What is she doing?" I mouth.

"I don’t know," he mouths back, hoisting his eyebrows to the middle of his forehead.

“Yes madame cheri, yes! I WILL take the black sood pumps.” She rams her small fists together. “I won’t pay what you ask!”

I cover my mouth with my left hand, Robert’s with my right.

“And no, no I will not have any- what’s that? I need to do that? If I must.”

She seizes the tape and wrenches a clear strand from its reel. “If I must,” she repeats. She smoothes the tape over her upper lip, using her finger to flatten the air bubbles.

“Sho be it,” she mutters, and with a valiant stroke she rips it off.

Her shriek makes us duck and grab each other's arms.

random excerpt from a story of mine, about the price beauty exacts.

my sister's 21st birthday on sunday!

In which she discusses her past-present-future on Friday, May 22nd, 2009.

Currently I stand in the airport, where DCD imagined I would be. He said, “I picture you waiting in the terminal reading a magazine, maybe surrounded by family.” I imagined him sucking a cigarette in the corner of a press room, drumming his fingers against a sheaf of papers. So I guess I imagined where he was, and he imagined where I am: here.

When I enter the security line I am told to remove my flats. I stand five foot seven in socks, no wider than the security guard’s thigh. Our heads are the same size. Three nights from now DCD will tell me his head is bigger than mine, but I will disagree. His hair is bigger width-wise, mine is bigger depth-wise.

Standing in socks in the airport is degrading. No more degradation than I fed myself two Christmases ago. I went to the bar across from gate four, twenty feet from where I stand. I ordered a double gin and tonic. I spilled the glass and I spilled the bowl of nuts, timber-timber, one after another. I asked the bartender for a napkin. I gulped twice, I swiped twice and the deed was done. The party was either over or just starting, but who knows these things in the moment?

I wish Dave Jones were here with me now. We could be watched by the people watchers. I am sitting cross-legged in front of the gate four window. I stare at the tarmac and I yearn for asphalt. I would like Dave Jones to hold my hand as we walk to the grass stripe cleaving the concrete. I would look in his eyes and see planes fly out of his ears. Maybe he could press his ear to my chest and listen to my heart beat and pound and ring and jump.

I review my past and future in light of this feeling. "You are ignorant of what you do," I say - letting the words find places in my mouth.

I yesterday only began to love, to understand. 5/24/09

Second morning in Breckenridge.

I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. I listen to Dad concoct his tea in the kitchen. Red rose with half a teaspoon of milk. I can direct him from counter to counter. Before he sneezes I whisper "bless you."

Two sisters still sleep: Jackie sprawled like a star fish, blond hair splayed. Cassie buried beneath covers, snoring and dreaming of red eyed seagulls.

I am awake, always awake, I rise early.

Where is my mother? Ahh, the missing figure, "touche" she would mutter, disapproving. She could be running in place or painting a landscape or crouched beneath a closet shelf sipping chardonnay.

My family. My makeup, my insides.

If I were a fourth sister and describing myself I would write:

And the oldest is awake, always awake, writing in her room. I can hear her soft sighing through the wall. The occasional thump of pen against paper. She will appear in a minute and say "good morning, lovely girl, good morning - I just woke up." But I know she has been up for hours.

And then I kiss my youngest sister's cheeks and say, "you don't exist, which is just as well."

To think I almost missed it all!

Title quote from Franz Wright's Admission.

facebook

right before high school, on a train up to DC.
notice: my open fly.
haaa.

taking a break at work. 11:00 AM - 11:15 AM.

could be worse.
source: christopher david ryan

I am standing outside of a beige office building. The building houses the company I work for, the cubicle I sit in, the colleagues I work with to produce writing I am not too proud of… with every line of text I edit I surrender some soul. Not because I am dramatic, or a drama queen, and yes, the thought has crossed my mind. But because I contribute to the defilement of the every day. Ad text. Ad title. Small bursts of bore mined by search engines, the hated and the loved king Google.

Everything is popping and sudden and quick, nothing takes it's time, slowly grows warmer, like a whitman poem.

Occasionally I let my mind wander to thoughts of next year, my next life. The term “entry level” withering in my memory.

But for now I keep editing and changing and conversing with the middle man. So many middle men that I don’t recognize people at the ends. Are they even there?

last day in Curacao...

Before I left for Curacao, a physic informed me that “on an island surrounded by water,” my “third eye” would open. At the time I imagined a dramatic flourishing, a lightening bolt from the sky and striking me religious.

But of course, what happened was unexpected, and what was expected never happened. As is the way of the world. The awakening was more subtle, more graceful – like the slow and delicate opening of a flower.

Every morning I wake up and the slate has been cleared by someone nameless, someone who slips through my window and kisses me calm. I can’t hold the emotions from the previous day. I awake before my eyes open, when my body is tense with the idea of awakening. I know I must rise, but I let myself drift in darkness a little longer – I am on vacation, I have the time.

I brush my teeth, I brush my hair, I pull on a tee shirt and shorts. I walk onto the white washed porch and watch rays of sun slash green water. My friend tinkers with something indoors, but I ignore him. I am obsessed with the clean slate: who and what is the cause?

Sometimes I make breakfast, most of the time I do not. I wait until my body informs me of hunger, then I eat. I write for thirty minutes to shake the night’s dreams from my head to the page. I sip coffee and wait for the sun to stand at it’s full height, yellow and burning in a blue arch of sky. I undress and lay on a porch chair, absorbing the heat with my burning body.

The day moves on, with and with out our knowing. We move to an internal rhythm. When we feel like drinking, we drink. When we feel like singing, we sing. Dancing, cooking, swimming, laughing.

Often we jump in our start-and-stop car for a drive through the country. We wave at passers-by and stick out our tongues at children in buses. We lose track of where we are and lose track of ourselves in the island city of mazes and nameless streets.

We always find our way back.

Every night ends with a feast we prepare in celebration of the day. Seltzer chills in the ice box while my friend strings shiskabobs and I chop vegetables. We eat outside on the porch. We light candles only to watch the island winds blow them out. My friend plays with his music until he settles on a playlist that always includes Van Morrison.

This island is a place for extremes. The rugged earth and charging ocean intensify once mundane affairs. Each moment the past and the future fade to gray, and I am left with the primary colors- the here, the now, and the breath.

****

dipping and diving.

Today we went snorkeling. I can now see why this place is called a diver’s hotspot!

Multicolored reef rings the banana shaped island. Purple, blue and magenta fish dip and duck through orange and yellow rock… black sea urchins crouch below jagged coral, schools of fish scatter like leaves, rusted canons and barnacle covered boats from the 18th century hide half submerged in the sand.

---- Well, to clarify, Omar SAID he saw a cannon when we were swimming from the beach. Supposedly there was “like a twenty foot one” near the shore, but upon returning we tried to find it – for thirty minutes – and we couldn’t. Mysterious canons! I told him maybe he was imagining it, a tropical form of p*nis envy… he didn’t like that too much. -----

The sand is white, so white I pretend its snow as I swim along the ocean floor. The water can’t be less than 75 degrees, and waves are nearly non-existent. Curacao sees perfect weather almost year round, yet tourists are known to flock to the other AåBC islands, especially Aruba, due to the semi desert landscape. The advantages for tourists, then, is seclusion and great preservation of the natural domain.

I am quickly falling head over heels for this enigmatic, hidden place… I can remember every moment, feel every second, and understand the brilliant purity that surrounds me!

More later : ) Off to search for that canon.

Kon ta bai? Mi ta bon.

Sky(Water?) Line

at Hook's Hut

Willemstad Colors

in honor of the Jackster, so far away : (

WINNING in paradise : )

Willemstad is the one and only city on the island of Curacao. We went there today, thinking we were headed to the infamous “CENTRUM” market. We can’t find it ANYwhere, and I want to go!! ARG!

On the way to Willemstad we got lost and loved it. We stopped at an out of the way restaurant called “Hooks Hut,” loved by locals and tourists alike (as our slightly rude waitress told us).

Afterwards we headed to the capital city in our stick shift vehicle. I can’t drive stick, so Omar has to… I like to snap photos out the window though : )

The best way I can describe Willemstad is a tropical Amsterdam with out rain and sexed up window ladies. The colonial buildings are extraordinarily preserved, and are washed with vibrant blues, greens, pinks and yellow. The people are nice, everyone sounds like they are singing… shopping was like taking a time machine back to the 80’s.

Tonight we are making shish kabobs and Omar doesn’t know it, but I bought some marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers – S’MORE time!! Yet another childhood treat.

I have been writing every day, and feeling more clear than ever. I think I am finally letting go of the past, my recent break up especially, and embracing the present.

more later, now it's chow time <3

Curacao, first few days...

from the plane,

our private beach-

Omar's sandy feet-

losing (mini putt) in paradise!

bon appetit : )

Curacao is unbelievable! I am writing this in my air conditioned house-for-two-weeks, looking over a turquoise cove Curacao is unbelievable!

This is an island of rugged juxtapositions. Cacti line the white beaches, pink and orange bougainvillea colors the sparse grey landscape. Rocky hills nudge the calm Atlantic coast. Even the language, Papiamento, is a bizarre mix: Spanish, English, French, and “something else.”

Synopsis of today’s adventure:

… We awoke after a 12-hour sleep. I felt incredibly refreshed, having slept off my plane weariness. For breakfast I ate stolen miniwheats and wrote morning pages in the “outside living area,” what Omar calls his “naked place” (he has delusions about nudist living, NO they aren’t realized). I wrote, I read, I photographed our surroundings. He jogged the rocky hills.

Later we reconvened to hit the beach and float on fraying rafts in the clear Caribbean water. Nobody is here; we have the place to ourselves. Down the road there’s a hotel, and we are permitted to use their facilities for $5. They have a charming staff whose language sounds like a song. Combined with the crashing waves and whistling winds, this place is absolutely paradise.

After baking for hours we played mini-putt-putt and guess who won? Moi. Victory is sweet : ) but the pina colodas we drank afterwards were sweeter.

Hope you all are having a great July!

It's no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase "As pretty as an airport" appear - Douglas Adams

Why have I always loved airports?

Hundreds of thousands of people congregate in one spot before departing for hundreds of thousands of places.

We join one another in line, on escalators, in the high speed trams zipping from terminal to terminal– We eat $20 burgers and sip $5 Starbucks, click clack our laptops, wearily scan crowds for that maybe-terrorist.

A fusion occurs. You become one with the crowd - you are a worker among workers, a patron among patrons.

I find this comforting.

I am watching a young Mom try to control three kids under the age of four. Deep circles sit like dark puddles below her eyes. Hairline cracks crease the thin skin around her mouth. She orders “Sandra” to pull up her pants and “Ian” to sit down, all the while bouncing a red-faced baby on her knee. I think, where is her husband? Where is the father?

So I repeat: why do I love airports, this den of germs, confusion and chaos?

Transit. Mass transit. The crowd is constantly changing, never static – only the airport employees stay put, those shadowy figures ringing up our magazines, our trailmix, our cashew shaped pillows.

Airports contain the best and the worst of humanity. Nothing beats it. Except maybe the gym.

I arrived in Miami safely, and have been hanging out with Omar's family the entire night... we watched the show "Wipeout," has anyone seen it? It is HILARIOUS, but prepared to feel seriously guilty.

more later. sweet dreams, mundobello.

buenas

I spoke with Evan tonight. He is in Medellín, Colombia.

Evan is... well, he was my boyfriend, for a very long time… and now? he is my good friend. Good friend? He is something complicated, unable to be explained, a unique presence for which I am grateful.

So we got to talking, about his life and my life, good things and bad. And I brought up the writer’s block, and the possibility that at 18 I was better than I am now. I told him for awhile I lost hope, especially during the college dark ages… (sound the violins).

And the cheeky bastard, what did he say? he denied it. Said I never lost hope, said that I used to say no matter what, no matter what the situation, I could always pull something out.

I smiled.

thousands of miles away and he still knows me well enough to surprise myself with myself.

: )

You are:

Welcome back to me! It's been awhile since I've posted, but I was in Palm Springs for the weekend, and the internet cost $1mil per minute.

Today I am posting pictures of myself and my family. I don't LIKE these photos, but when I look at them I feel a knot - and as fellow Canadian Margaret Atwood says: "Good writing begins where there is a knot."

So let the kneading (needing?)begin:

You are Katherine Hepburn, you are Marilyn Monroe, you are Meg Ryan and Cindy Crawford. You perch in a windowsill, awaiting your cue. You watch Cassie recite her line, and bow to the audience (your mom, your dad, and your aunt sandy). A bug lamp sways from a stray branch, and you wonder if it’s working.

You are readying yourself for high school and all that it entails.

You watch Cassie drag her paintbrush across the page, and with her lip held between her teeth she creates something beautiful, something stunning. Amanda paints like she thinks, and makes a watercolor resembling a photograph.

But then there’s you, attempting the impossible, trying to paint abstract notions of love and justice, sorrow and magic – and you are 16, what do you know?

Runny patches of primary colors bloom on your page, and the whole image cries long, sodden, lachrymose tears.


The person taking the picture is about to leave, and with your squinting eyes you press them through the door. Your sister sits beside you, pushed up in her chair, happy to be playing cards.

You want to laugh with out thinking: am I too young for this, am I too old for this?

You smile BIG for the camera. Your sister poses with her spoon as a prop.

Behind you Lake Simcoe’s surface shakes, dips and peaks like a shaken out blanket.

The day is fading, leaving only memories and farmer's tans testifying to its isness.

You are leaving for a foreign country, and your friends are there to see you off. You are only seventeen, (echo: only seventeen? sevenTEEN? SEVENTEEN?)

You will your heart to stop frenzily beating, you will your pulse to slow down - because if it doesn’t stop soon you know the courage will leak from you like air escaping from a balloon.

“See you in a year!”

To everyone: where are your knots? What memories make you cringe (with a smile)?

I love: Pops. Part Two!

I know tomorrow is mother’s day, but I promised a two parter on Pops… poor timing, but a good message!

My sisters and I are very blessed. We have not only an incredible mother, but an incredible father, as well.

I don’t know how to describe my father in a way that honors him to the extent he should be honored. So hopefully an excerpt from a story I wrote in 2002 suffices.

Context: My Dad and I used to play racquetball all the time. This story chronicles our many racquetball games - and, most importantly, our last one.

from the beginning of the story:

We always play on the fourth court, Papa and I. Now that I have a car I meet him here Wednesdays after school. It all started when I was eight years old and busy filling a suburban quota: beginner’s tennis. We still have a picture hanging in our bathroom of me in ready-stance, blond hair plastered to my head and a look of intent concentration tensing my face. That was most likely day one. Papa was picking me up from yet another tedious lesson, where the instructor would leave me for drinks in the club house while I was forced to contend with the ball machine. After being pelted by my eighth tennis ball, I decided that was enough.

later on....

I watch my Papa step onto the court, the way I have watched him for years. First he does an embarrassing Richard Simmons pacing back and forth across the ulterior wall- then, stopping where I previously positioned myself for my own stretches, he starts bending his knees and jumping a little, finally stretching a right arm to the ceiling.

Papa is a sports prodigy. His presence commands an intimidating and calm fear in his opponent; his decided steps trample smooth and firm on any chance of my ever winning. But his true genius derives from the psyche- ultimately he is a pleasure to play with. He gives compliments where compliments are due, insists on handicaps when needed, willingly offers tips of counsel to the middle-lower class of sports. He played me when I was eight- an eight year old flopping around the court, thinking slamming into the four walls is humorous- and never once did he raise his voice or grope his neck in frustration.

“I think your gonna beat me today Charlie. You want to serve first?"

He has said this for ten years now, almost in precisely the same way- an optimistic tone rings in his voice, only a little strained by years and years of victory.

“Nope, you can serve. You might need the advantage, old man”.

He just grins and takes the center. I watch my father, still fit and healthy at 49, bend his back with perfect ease- never checking his form, as I do, he can feel his form, like we know how to breathe. His eyes squint, accenting his crows feet- smile marks from too many belly laughs.

He beats me at the first game 15-11.

“Good game Robin Bobin, lets go get some water”.

I walk behind him down the hallway, trying to step where he steps, just once snagging his heel.

“Water grande” he says to the bar tender. She laughs, I turn pink.

I pivot on the high chair, ready to rattle off the anti- public corny jokes lecture, but instead I say,“Dad how come you have never let me beat you? I mean, you would think that a father would at least cater a little bit to an eight year old. But you never even let me gain a point, not one.”

“Let you win? But you can win. I won’t let you win if you already can win. And if there were no chance, we wouldn’t play.”

Swinging my legs from the high hibiscus chair, sipping a grand water grande, I loved my father. The feeling storms through you, like charging horses and you just love and love until your body slackens and can not endure more emotion. His belief in me extends past racquetball, extends into my marrow, so that all of me knows and all of me believes too.

So I kissed him on the cheek and said:“Thanks Pops. Lets go back and play some more.”

The next game I won, so the score was 2-2. Now this isn’t a marvel: I have been somewhat successful in coming back the second game for about two years now. It is the third game that always gets me, the third game that I can never win.

Sprinting across the court, chasing after a little blue ball, I knew the game would be close- he was trying to run me out. True, I had him running also. But the shots he was giving me! In racquetball, a key shot is close to the corner, extremely low, so that it can smack the ground in half a second and erase whatever chance you had to get there. At one point I actually tripped trying to make a shot, hitting my head against the right wall.

“Good try!!”

The boisterous comments bounces back to me five times over. Enraged, I decided to show him a good try, as I rubbed my throbbing temple.

Before I realized it I had him. It was as quick as that, and suddenly I found myself closer to the end. Here I was- ready to serve, 14-13, me. So many times I wanted this, but now that I am here…. If I beat him- he is centered behind me, I can hear his breathing- I beat him. And if I beat him, I will be able to beat him; will he be angry with me? Will this ruin casual Wednesdays, racquetball Wednesdays, our days? It might make things awkward between us- my fears ate through my mind like a virus.

But I am my father’s daughter: I have his heart. I arched my back and hit the ball with every last sliver of force I could find- the shot was perfect, just like he always taught me, to the corner and quickly down. I win. I won.

Slowly, I turned around.

“Ah you got me. Good game Robin, great game. Lets go get some frozen yogurt.”

He looked older to me. His white hairs seemed to be charging in a mad race to take over his skull, and his crow’s feet were pronounced and saddened. I noticed the mild hunch of his shoulders, the wrinkled skin hanging on the backs of his hands. I wanted to hug him, to jump on him like when I was little, to let him tousle my hair and call me Charlie.

But I didn’t. As he walked to the back wall’s door, I saw his reflection in the court's window. I realized his eyes were wet, a sad smile dancing on his lips.

But I guess, eventually, we all beat our fathers.

I love: John Heartfield & Hannah Hoch. Proto-Photoshoppers.

creepy, eh?

the bourgeoisie is "wrapped up" in propaganda. and check out that halter! it's like wiemar- style s&m!

hannah hoch, cut with a kitchen knife. 1919.

John Heartfield was born in Berlin, and by 1918 he was immersed in the ever so happening dada scene – he anglicized his name to protest the nationalism and anti-British attitude in WWI Germany. Comparable to me renaming myself Robin Bin Laden to protest the war in Iraq... actually I kind of like that?

His five minutes of fame occurred in the 1920’s and 30’s – and his five minutes of notoriousness occurred in the late 30’s to 40’s – one of Hitler’s first laws was that nobody could print photographs of him or the nazi party with out official consent. As you can see, Heartfield didn’t abide by the rules - and subsequently landed at the top of Hitler’s shit list (a long, long list).

He was a smart artist who pioneered graphic design, specifically German photomontage. You can see snippets of Dada influence in his whimsical and poignant, irreverent and anti-natzi work.

His montages comment on the rise of mass media and propaganda as they relate to the political atmosphere in the Weimar republic.

I just like him. Thought I would include him in May’s things I love.

The third image is from Hannah Hoch, another originator of photomontage, and another dadaist. She swung from men to women and back to men. I like her, too.

17th kindness: planting nice notes and a lil' history of photography - early 20th century

my best effort to capture what pictorialist photography was like...

a real pictorialist!! heinrich kuhn. see how this resembles a painting?

how do i move through the world? reading and researching. blame my private school education, blame my bookworm mother, blame my extremely inquisitive sisters - just don't blame me for being a nerd.

so, the subject on the brain today: photography.

A very strange art, concerning discovery and innovation. Light and shadow. Man, machine, and image.

Imagine the world when photography exploded into a fad. Can you imagine how jarring realistic images must have been? People didn’t know how to read photographs– they read them like paintings. Photography “exhibits” displayed small, framed prints thrown onto large walls. Instead of one or two prints per wall, there were tons of them, floor to ceiling – the “good” photographers aimed for viewer’s eyeline.

this is what pictorialism was all about. trying to assuage the stark exactness and details of photographic representation. even tones, selective focus, bland images - boring colors. etc. (ok, so it isn't my style)

I ask questions about photography, and the questions lead to more questions.

For example:

How does one classify photography? A means of mass communication, a mechanic process, an artistic process, a scientific process... One of the very few arts that can claim objectivity. This must have pissed all those highly subjective impressionists OFF. Freedom from the artist – it’s about the machine and the process.

So wtf? Is it a form of information or artistic expression?

Only in the second quarter of the twentieth century was the medium considered study-able. Nobody recorded the history of photography until the 1930’s. In the early 1900’s absolutely no museums had photography sections. Now, most of them do.

The layman’s art – anyone can do it! Grab a Kodak, a snapshot camera, and make a moment. Joe Blow is the next Da Vinci –

This must have INFURIATED artists who spent years and years honing their artistic skill.

Anyway, a little food for thought. Above is one of my favorite pictorialists and probably the raciest image i could find. look at that bod! hot.

good deed today: slipping nice notes into random books at the library. 5.

31: reflecting

One image to pay homage to the past,

No matter the state of your garden, as long as you care for your garden yourself, it is never too late to claim that which has always been yours.


Breaking up - breaking up the pair, breaking up the relationship, breaking up the little bubble you've inevitably created. I miss the bubble. I miss the boy – I miss his humor, his kindness, his steadiness – and I miss the boy’s family.

In December we – his family and I - went for a little jaunt to Central America and frankly, I couldn’t take the pressure.

I miss the Boy’s mother – she has this uncanny ability to understand people, and to draw conclusions and realizations from seemingly impossible situations. She can look at something and see through it – and tell you about it after. In the most gracious, and thoughtful, way. His father is hilarious, and unapologetic ally kind. For a long time I felt supported by them, and by the boy – like I had jumped down the rabbit hole and awoken in a fuzzy cocoon of warmth and Midwestern nice.

But. But there’s always a but. Everything changed, and that’s OK too.

another image to welcome the future - and the summer!

27: goodbye daylight

thursday is my marathon nap day. i clocked 4 hours horizontal this afternoon, and when I awoke i snapped photos of the first things i noticed:

and in my blurry mind it goes like something like this:

oh, how i love this moment! when the sun simmers and burns the edges of the day: images outlined in gold, lining as thin and capricious as a brushstroke...

night seeps in like streams of water extinguishing a fire.

happy thursday! this is my favorite, and most lucky, day of the week. play the lotto and boil in the hot tub - this is how I celebrate :)