Garry Winogrand.

A supposed male chauvinist pig, but he did publish Women Are Beautiful, in his own defense.

I personally like the Morroco Series featuring a sophisticated socialite in one photo, and a vampirish animal in the next. 

Reminds me of some of the girls I grew up with! clad in 1950's attire. 

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.

: )

a drop of ink and a million think.

Today I gave myself a break from writing and allowed myself to read the work of others.

303

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat—

I've known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—

Emily Dickinson

I like to believe she was speaking of her art, the solitude and isolation necessary to create. And the "society" of encouraging people you must surround yourself with...

We are all born in captivity. That is no disgrace, for there is no other place in which to be born… But unlike other animals, whose original endownment is also their ultimate endowment, we can be born, as it were, in one world, and come at last to live in quite another.

Richard Mitchell

tomorrow is another day! goodnight, everyone : )

frustration. fear. fun.

needing some advice, thought I would turn to all of you lovely ladies (with the right dash of boys). I am frustrated with my artistic process. With the artistic process. I feel as though I was a better writer at 18 than I am at 23. Writing, unfortunately, does not follow a linear progression - more like chaos theory. 

What do you do when you feel as though you are slipping back, instead of charging forward? 

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)?

Faults are thin when love is thick.

A+ + + + +

that's me, on the right. rocking the big blue glasses. what a BABE i was! :)

C+ student.

I tutor a third grader in the craft of writing. I teach him how to describe (use all your senses), I teach him how to persuade (Please and Thank You), I teach him how to narrate (word-movie). 

But today, for the first time, I had him teach me. 

I wrote an essay about an evil LegoMan named Bob. Bob found a digging machine and accidentally dug himself to China. He ate some rice and drove a ford. Then he dug himself home. The end. 

My third grader gave me a C+. 

Shh.

a photo from last night

Today, for the first time, I bit my tongue in an argument. 

My sisters and I are notorious for our sharp tongues. I constantly, and consistently, say cruel things I don't mean - but only in relationships. Not with my girl friends, but with the boys? Watch out. 

Today Oms and I were about to have one of our earth shattering, explosive fights... and instead of verbally castrating him, I kicked him out of the car. Then I went to a meeting. Then I picked him up and apologized, and he said: "Why? You didn't say anything mean." I was so surprised I didn't talk for a minute and a half. 

Progress not perfection, right? 

Dancing queen(s).

I have never gone to karaoke and dancing on a Sunday night before. 

I have never had friends like this. 

I tried to sing the Touch Myself song.

Oh! So that's the Getty!

August Sander, from "Man of the Twentieth Century"

Bernd & Hilla Becher

9 views of framework house, Germany, 1961.

Today I went to the Getty Center for the very first time. 

I saw the August Sander exhibit, as well as Bernd & Hilla Becher. If any of you live in LA, and want an incredible day trip, and haven't been, take the time! GO! I beg of you. 

More about it later, right now I have to seduce my main squeeze Barry into spending more time with me. I'm about to be replaced as a spiritual groupie. 

Hope you all are having lovely weekends : )

Jackie's Birthday!!

My little sister is 20. 20 years old. 2 decades. 20 rides around the sun. Wow.

Jackie is my best friend, my sister, and my rock.  

She is a bundle of paradoxes: silently strong, painfully kind, steadily brilliant, artistic and rational. Athletic and graceful. Softspoken but a loud yeller. Bold and gentle. Surprising. 

Today I will celebrate her for her - Jackie and all her exquisite Jackie-ness.

 

I love you, little J! Photos from the last weekend in May.

pet peeves.

I ate rabbit. Tasted like chicken. Reminded me of Blinky. 

Mr. Blinks belonged to Cassie, Jackie and I. He died of a heart attack. In my arms. I pitched him back in the cage, ran to my room, and waited for the sky to fall. Two hours later my Dad knocked on the door. "Yes?" I asked, nonchalantly. "Robin, what happened to Blinky?" I shrugged.

After Blinky we got a couple of turtles, one of which we named "undecided." 

Undecided & co were followed by a long line of parakeets: Purdy, Lemonade, Colors, Bluebird, Budgie, Damn Bird - Mom, Jack, Cass, can you guys remember any more? 

I consider Sir Sampson my first real pet. 

What was - or is - your first pet? 

just between you, me, and the fencepost.