fff#11

i admittedly kinda cheated because i had to rush. and this is completely unedited.

including block, clock, frock, rock, flock.

i was wearing a frock? i'd never worn a frock before. it was 12sizes too large for me, even the sleeves dragged on the ground; like wearing father's overcoat as a child - i swam in it. and i was running? sweating. and it was freezing. was i running from something or toward it? i tried to tell me legs to stop but they wouldn't listen. immense rock walls surrounded the thin rock road i ran down as far as my eye could see in both directions. the jagged narrow canyon was eerie, curving often and left me feeling terribly claustrophobic. 

turning one tight corner, still frozen, still sweating, i suddenly came to an avalanche of stone blocking my path. i wanted to stop to consider my options, but my legs immediately started me up broken rock. on coated hands and feet i continued up the mountain, dragging this enormous frock as the rocks slid away beneath me. the frock proved extremely heavy making the chore harder than it needed to be. it seemed to consistently get caught and pulled from my body as i ran uphill until it got so caught; sleeve in one hole, tails dragged into another that i literally ran out of it, kicking it from my body as i ran. it was in that moment that i realised the frock had been my only garment leaving me naked to the freeze. i wanted to go back for it after such a realisation, but again, my legs wouldn't allow it. 

banging knee and elbow (among other things) off rock and boulder to the point it drew blood i wondered if it'd ever get to the top and then surprisingly i was there. the canyon walls vanished and my legs stopped. the canyon plateau was nothing but flat brown earth in every direction. i heard what seemed like familiar chirping above me that led my eyes to the sky. there i saw a flock of winged clocks in v-formation. a flock of clocks? i'm either in a salvador dali painting or i'm dreaming, i thought to myself. it turned out to be the latter. i awoke, sheets and pillows strewn about; dreading the reality of the workday ahead of me.

relax (fff#10)

so this isn't as good as what i lost yesterday. but i'm still fine with the result. we'll see whatcha think.

before i write this week, let me just say given the words i'm pretty sure this is gonna be straight uncouth porn. 

so including dirtier, messier, sloppier, wetter, read.

i felt dirtier than ever before. the mess; messier than ever before. a broken recliner, two broken lamps, even a broken table (which broke drywall) among other casualties. and we were sloppier than ever before. candle wax, oils, lotions, honey, plenty lube, and wine; 1merlot and 2pinot noir. stained sheets, stained couch, stained carpet, stained skin.

it started with a long week at work and a promise of a relaxing friday night. that promise drove my foot and the gas pedal into the ground on my way to our little 1-bedroom on the outskirts of town so hard that i had to verbally tell myself to slow down; "the sex is no good if your dead" i reminded. finally arriving, i couldn't keep from running the steps around the side of the apartment to our porch door. fumbling with keys, i managed to insert key#1 into lock#1, turn, and before i could get key#2 into it's appropriate slot the door swung open revealing a beautiful woman barely wearing a white terry-cloth robe which contrasted wonderfully with her perfect chocolate satin skin and never completely covered her ass. she had my coat+bag in hand before i even realised i'd come through the door; too in awe, eyeing every inch of her ridiculous sexiness. she was the sexiest thing i'd ever seen, and i frequently reminded her of that. i suppose you could say she was the love of my life. why she was with me and treated me better than i deserved, i would never understand.

i snapped back into the present when she whipped my belt off from around my waist; i guess i had managed to step out of my shoes. she pushed me onto the recliner and staddled me, gently kissing my neck as she untucked and unbuttoned my shirt. i grabbed her bare round ass from just under the robe and pulled her forward returning her embrace on her neck+collarbone when she suddenly jumped up off me and the chair and for the first time i realised the smell of food in the air, though i knew we wouldn't eat it. she loved to tease in the beginning and walked off to the kitchen to check the meal, though she too knew we wouldn't eat it. she returned with a lit spliff on her lips and 2bottle/glass combinations of wine; merlot for her, noir for me. she poured and laid herself out on the couch. sexy. 

i drank and smoked with her, all the while trying to entice her into returning to foreplay, even though she wouldn't even let me join her on the couch. she was in control of these things, so i would drink my wine and wait patiently, knowing the anticipation of foreplay was foreplay. it was always fun trying to entice anyway.

my bottle of noir going dry must have been her signal to allow things to begin. she moved from the couch and knelt between my legs, unfastening and stripping off my pants, then quickly rose and began rubbing her ass against my almost instantly rock hard boxer briefs. i suddenly felt a rush of energy that seemed to emanate from my cock and standing spun her around, lifted her by her thighs and rushed her across the room slamming into the wall where i riped the terry-cloth from her body. we bounced from the wall to the desk, eventually finding the dining table. finally back at her collarbone, i worked along her perfect breasts, down her stomach toward her already damp clitoris; greeted with a series slow kisses and gentle licks. when i felt her get wetter, i flicked and flailed my tongue over and around and across her clit+labia, sucking or spreading when needed or desired or cried for. she suddenly rocked her writhing hips forward shoving her lips permanently against mine and my tongue inside her where it continued to flit and flip and whirl. 

there was another rush of energy over me and i had to enter her. coming up for air, i dropped my shorts, flipped her onto her stomach and clenching her hips thrust my pulsing cock as deep into her as possible. she moaned mercilessly as i grabbed at thigh and hip and breast, and arm and hair and shoulder; anything to pull me further inside of her. animal instincts seemed to take over.

i liked losing control. i watched my cock pump in and out of her harder and deeper than ever until the table gave way, leaving us standing in space. we moved to the couch, then the chair, then the kitchen counter, the bathroom counter, the floor and eventually the bed. when i would slow down for too long she would pour some more wine down my throat and some onto her tits and then incorporate something new into our romp. the honey was sweet. the candle wax burned. we went through an entire bottle of lube. i especially liked the vibration of her toy inside her as i fucked her ass. we fucked through the night well into daylight and i honestly couldn't say if it was morning or afternoon. hours ticked by like minutes and i was incredibly proud and surprised at my stamina. i couldn't believe any neighbours hadn't come knocking to complain about her screams and our constant thumps. how i still had the energy was beyond me, but i found myself lying on the bed, each limb tied to a bedpost.

she liked losing control too. she mounted my cock and rode me like an animal screaming and squirting repeatedly until the sheets and myself were completely soaked in her delicious cum, arching her back (her sexy back) on her final thrust before letting the weight of her exhaustion swallow me whole. and then without a word... she dismounted and left the room, leaving me bed-stricken. i figured she was coming back with whipped cream, or chocolate sauce, but then, as i laid quiet, i heard the shower. i began to worry, not because she was showering without me, or because i was still strapped to the bed, but because after her 30minute shower, my cock was still pulsing, still standing at full attention. 

minutes later my love walked in the bedroom wearing her white terry-cloth robe, as i looked on in awe, like usual. she sat on the bed next to me and kissed my lips and then the tip of my cock. "thank you," she said, more to my cock than to me it seemed. she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out what appeared to be empty pill boxes as she read "viagra, cialis, lavitra, extenze, magna, adderall."

"what is this?" i asked, almost laughing and slightly perplexed.

"hope you enjoyed your night. . .  and your wine." she said. "i know i did. thanks again," more to me this time than my dick, kissing me passionately on the lips. she reached for the rest of the pinot noir that sat on the nightstand, pushed the bottle onto my lips and began pouring as i coughed and gagged, trying not to swallow. then as i caught my breath, she duct taped my mouth shut. i looked her for a glimmer in her eye to tell me this was just some new sex game, but saw none. and then there was a knock at the door. 

she left the room with haste as i laid more worried about the medical implications than the fatal attraction moment i had just experienced. i briefly heard mumbling in the other room and the door bedroom door swung open. my love and 3women stood in the doorway. there was some immediate snickering followed by a series of questions and comments:

"i can't believe you did it."

"you gave him the full pack of each?"

"are you sure he won't die?"

the last question echoing my own concerns. but then my love said, "yep, there he is ladies. he's lasted this long, i don't see why he can't go longer. $200 for as long as you want. who's first?" 

1woman forked over her money and sprung onto the bed in seconds, staring and stroking my pulsing cock with amasement. i thought desperately about losing my erection, but it was no use. she lifted her skirt and started rubbing her naked pussy up+down the length of my shaft. the other women, including mine, retired to the living room without a word. i jerked and pulled on my restraints with all my might, but my only remaining energy was in my penis. as this woman smacked my cock against her clit, i thought about what all that medicine meant for me? was i gonna die? was my penis simply going to explode? or was i perhaps the luckiest guy in the world? the questions didn't really matter and as this woman slowly inserted the tip of my cock, i decided, though petrified, that i might as well enjoy it.

fff#10

... i was editing. blogger was doing that thing when it doesn't autosave. i came back to my fff from a different window after researching something. accidentally clicked something trying to drag my cursor to my edit and lost what i considered to be possibly the best fff (maybe the best thing) i've ever written. i'm clearly not going to make the deadline and i'm far too upset about it to even think about rewriting it now. maybe i'll try sometime after the drama of the loss passes. sorry to disappoint you with no story. i'm terribly disappointed myself. fuck.

before and after fff#9

bigup sweet trini for flash fictioning our friday. and i must say i doubt i'm the only one interested in reading more erotica from you  so if erotic starters are what you need then goddammit use erotic starters!

i pretty much let this piece write itself. i think i may even like it.

all that was left was/were...

all that was left were memories. i remembered giving up football for music and putting down music for more visual arts; painting and photography which, after school, proved to be my only profitable skill. i think i can remember every bride's face, but not one name. 

i remembered the call from the editor that led to my job in the city and my first thousand assignments being in the living section; newly wed and engaged couples. why we couldn't just let them send us pictures like every other newspaper was beyond my comprehension. i remembered how it was her who got me my first real assignment, and how my photo made the front page the very next morning.  i remembered our first date and me waiting for her to meet her deadline. i remembered the sight of her running to me. i remembered the feel of her crawling in next to me. i remembered her promotion to investigative journalism meant my promotion to investigative journalism after she fought for me. i remembered our months of great sex and investigation before blowing the mayor's procurement scandal wide open. 

i remembered the threats that came to the office that week, the faces of the men who showed up at my door the next and thinking how thankful i was that she was working late; will they get to her anyway? had they already? questions still unanswered. i remembered being pulled out of the trunk over the river and realising their intent, lunging at the closest one so they would finish me fast before they threw me over; anything to avoid drowning (my greatest fear). i remembered the feel of the lead as it went through my chest, the weightlessness as they threw me from the bridge and the impact of the water like a wall when i hit, just before everything went black... and nearly immediately back to light.

i lay here now with all these memories and this story to tell, but without the motor skills to express them. those memories will fade with time and i will have forgotten them completely long before i even utter my 'first' word. a lifetime of memories cast aside for a new lifetime. looking back there was a lot more good than there was bad.  

wasted (fff#8)

this week's fff. not my best work, but happy i wrote and i'm on time.
including gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum.
the gun seemed to weight a tonne, having held it at point for what felt like an eternity; eyes fixated on my target. nerves gyrated my whole arm so bad i could hear the gun rattle, which i thought only happened in the movies, and i suddenly questioned the integrity of the clenched weapon realising i never had actually fired the thing; not really wanting to fire it now. my free hand (both were wrapped in latex) wiped sweat from my brow, onto the back of my pants and then plunged into my pocket for my mobile. time check. it was a nervous habit picked up since i broke my watch though this time check served it's purpose; startling me back into my task and steadying my hand. it was nearly time for the pick up and i hadn't even begun the first act: murder. 
i stood over the sleeping victim who hadn't moved since my arrival which, if it wasn't for his occasional deep snore, would have me hoping he might have already been dead. i had looked over the hallway pictures of he and his family having fun at picnics and ball games on my way to the foot of his bed. he looked like a pleasant man, a good father and it had me wondering what he had done that i would be sent here to complete this chore. 'why me?' passed through my head too, but that answer was easy; father said so. mafia work had been easy, but i'd never had to pull a trigger making tonight feel a little something like initiation for a family i grew up in. 
my mobile vibrated 'wtf?' from carmen who was waiting with dominic outside at the car and i nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of american mafia texting acronyms (they were probably updating their facebook pages too). the text, while funny, was to be taken seriously and the gun began to rattle again. i moved to the bedside and standing over my mark interrupted his dream firing three shots; two to the chest and one to the head. i couldn't differentiate between the whisp of the silenced pistol and the victims last breath. his white sheets almost instantly turned a deep plum colour. i holstered my firearm and began wrapping the body in the soaking egyptian cotton followed by the goose down comforter. 
i lugged the slightly portly father and husband by the feet down from the bed, back down the hall of family photos, down the steps and out the door to meet carmen and dom. they were anxiously waiting.
'what the fuck took ya so long kid?'
i didn't answer; instead simply dropped my gloves on top of the body and lit a cigarette, sitting on the trunk of the car to chain smoke until the night's events concluded. from there i watched dom open my gift wrapped package. 'nice work' he yelled in my direction, complementing my murderous accuracy, not aware that i wasn't proud of myself. he pulled out a machete and began hacking the body into it's six main parts; finishing the work just as the truck arrived, backing up through the yard right up to dom's butcher work. carmen helped the driver, a man i had never seen before, lower a drum from the truck bed and popped the lid. the driver put on large rubber gloves and reached for a hacked arm dropping it into the drum. an immediate sizzling sound filled the air followed by the most revolting stench fathomable hitting me like a wall. i instantly gagged as the stench hit the back of my throat, choking on smoke and eventually puking on the car's bummer. the body parts melted away in minutes and the lid was returned to the canister. all three men lifted it back onto the truck bed, the driver received a briefcase, a handshake, a smoke from carmen before leaving in his truck which read mancini chemical and waste disposal. 
with the truck's (and the body's) disappearance dominic tossed the sheets back in the house while carmen came over to give me shit about puking on the car and then ushered me into the back seat. dom took the driver's seat and drove us the hour home for which i demanded silence. upon our return my father greeted me with a proud look and my next assignment. 
i threw up on his shoes. initiation complete. 

poison (fff#6)

bigup sweet trini for spurring creativity. sorry to be late with my fff again. i know breaking the rules isn't fair... the rules are part of the exercise afterall. i won't let it happen again.

anyway, i have no idea how i feel about this piece. the trigger begged it was the eighth deadly... sin, but i just couldn't go that route, even though i kinda did. this seems to me like a spewing of loaded words grouped into phrase, but i'll be really interested to hear what people think, even if you tell me i suck and should stop writing. enjoy. or not.

it was the eighth deadly concoction in as many days; each more potent than the last. lies and betrayal finally constructing a poison of pain and sorrow and misery that could probably kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. love, the original poison, turned heads and stomachs, blurred vision and minds, loosened legs and lips and thoughts, and prevented preventative action. it was beautifully painful, torturing victims and leaving them scarred and sick, but not dead. complacency poisoned next and brought with it occasional self-pity and doubt, but worse, brought most dreadfully worrisome silence. the silence isolates but doesn't kill; though for most isolation is more painful than death. isolation is merely an incubator of poison. leave anything to stew long enough and it will rot. it brews rancid loneliness festering in a broth of hollow despair and if left long enough, suddenly there's contempt.

contempt is perhaps the most dangerous of poison because contempt breeds contempt and carries with it all the concoctions that came before. it allows lies and betrayal to spin their way into hate and love and life; one seamless lie woven so simply into the next blanketing whatever must remain hidden. if it hadn't already, self-preservation now takes complete control. pride and lust mask self-loathing and melancholy, convincing the foolish that what is good is best. surreal secrets compress and layer like thousands of years of compacted bedrock; too hard to breakup. they can only be stood upon, buried beneath feet where they can't be seen like preserved past ancestors. they are there but are only thought of, never seen. sands of betrayal become the bed to lie on and even the waters can no longer clean the distain. reflections are lost among the ripples and muck of water that used to be so clear, so calm, so blue; leaving liars to gasp for air in a whirlpool of misinformation and distrust until eventually there are only lies and betrayal. the truth, too complicated to explain and hidden so thoroughly that it is lost beyond even knowing eyes that are too exhausted from watching behind them and studying mirrors for a glimpse of familiarity. 

there is no antidote for contempt. it poisons until it destroys. leaving behind the shell of who used to be. and so i find myself concocting the eighth potion with hands i can't recognise as my own; my own voice unfamiliar as i talk myself through the process. the eighth poison mixed with pain and sorrow and misery; set for destruction. it could possibly kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. 

i drink.

quick fff#5

so i know i'm late with this fff, but i wanted to write anyway. my weekend proved to be extremely grueling and anything but restful. forgiveness please.
flake rake break stake snake
the alarm rang.
3minutes.
we all knew what was at stake. our rake. my 20per cent upped to 25; leave it to ronden to flake out. 8times we had ran this same scheme and 8times successful. why ronden flake out now was beyond me. but i didn't care. he was one hell of a wheel man, but i wasn't completely foreign to the stick shift or the getaway and was prepared to get us away with haste.
"everybody on the ground." they always listened. not a hero among them in 8attempts. pathetic really. we could have been using water pistols; they wouldn't have known the difference.
"relinquish your wallets+purses." we filled pillow cases like it was halloween, except this was faster+easier than going door to door.
1:30.
the real loot; the safe and safety deposit boxes were emptied into a pillow cases too. had become typical to break bossman's nose to get in, so now it just happened. we had our hands full of pillows.
documentation of the event had been recorded and the copy came with us too; added to our collection. we watched those tapes with pride like game film before our next football match; studied+analyzed.
2:30.
"shut up.. shut the fuck up," suddenly yelled over the tears+screams.
a gunshot.
into the air.
silence.
2:52.
:53.
"we gotta go."
out the front to the car.
where was the car?
where was the fucking car? that fucking snake, ronden!
3minutes.
cops surrounded.

read about reading

you gotta read about (and then read) the holy grail of the unconscious - the red book. you may need to register with nytimes to read the article but i think it worthwhile. enjoy.

fff#4

freakishly large hands reached out toward her, flowers in tow, knuckles smacking pavement as she pulled back in disgust. her friends behind her screamed and then continued snickering about the deformity in front of them. he looked down his long lanky arms to his giant mitts, calloused and dry from always dragging the ground, and let out a roar which silenced the audience in time for them to all hear his anger turn to whimper. snickers turned to laughter. he felt the entire neighbourhood watching him. her brother stepped across the street and grabbed her by the hand to escort her the rest of the trip home leaving him to sulk on the corner, but the girl resisted. his gaze still stuck on his hands, her feet walked into view and he slowly looked all the way up to meet her gaze. she smiled. and then he smiled. she knelt to lift his monstrous left hand off the ground and held it a moment before accepting the flowers and offering her book strap as if to say, 'will you walk me home?' the books (like the flowers) nearly disappeared in his grasp. she pulled his other hand off the ground and down the street as she slowly led the way to her house; her brother and his friends staying close enough behind them that he could see their towering shadows at his feet. as they approached her house, his short frame couldn't climb the steps, having to return her book strap so he could monkey up them and onto the porch. she awaited him at the top, her brother and company at the bottom. she thanked him for the walk home and propositioned it becoming a routine. he obliged, unable to contain his joy. as she concluded her goodbye she dropped to her knees and kissed him on the cheek. his arms wrapped all the way around them both, fingers interlocking on his back. as he released and she stood her huge clumsy feet got caught among her incredibly long thin legs and she kneed him in the head, knocking him down the giant steps where her brother and friends had been watching. he was quickly surrounded by huge feet and long legs, each friend or brother looking like a two-trunked-tree against the sky. 'lemme help you up,' said the brother. his hands shot up from the ground. the brother lifted him to his feet and said 'you best treat her well.' he nodded in agreement, knowing he would. the brother nodded in return and he ran home, dragging knuckles all the way, excited for tomorrow's walk home from school.

run children, run for your life (fff#3)

bigup fff foreman. complete with title track - great video. they never could get that right, now fleeing yet again to another unknown destination. they had been on wanted posters for sometime; branded fugitives in their own city. a family of five, used to be six, chased from their home on carondelet street by a demolition crew so the city could have another set of condominiums. already jobless among the failing economy, the family fled their home on carondelet for a place in the garden district. they were chased from there to the 7th ward when moving trucks mysteriously appeared out front one hot summer morning. they had found themselves part of a village beneath the highway in mid-city a while until the cops busted that up and had finally become accustomed to sleeping atop the levee in the park at the river bend. they broke the law when they must and the parents spent countless hours instructing their children on how to remain inconspicuous and keep out of trouble; though it seemed they never could get that right. the taught theory was simply the less they were seen the safer they would be and parents would still occasionally have to drag children back out of public eye by the neck. picnicking pedestrians arrived at the levee early this morning and while steak+ribs sizzled people took to the field to kick ball. the family would wait for the footballers to have their fill before sneaking over to steal a meal. they sat at levee's peak, enticed by scents of savory, tummies grumbling. the footballers eat, drink and lethargically return to the pitch, more juggling now than playing. with parents okay, the family beginnings their approach toward the picnic; slowly at first but with increasing speed as they reach the bottom of the levee and break for the field. mother+father reach first, children follow. they rush the blanket of food and begin to scarf ribs+steak+potato. after only a couple of minutes a football viciously slams one of the children in the head and to the ground, followed by the yells of angry footballers who were coming toward them, not chasing their football. the family would make due with what food was already in their mouths and sprinted back to the levee's peak. the father, stopping to make sure all his children were close behind, looked to see his son still eating at the blanket. with footballers surrounding the youth he ran back to protect his own biting the first person who reached toward his son; locking jaw and tearing flesh. snarling+teeth showing, he snapped at anyone who came near his son until a sudden kick to his head knocked him down. forced+held to the ground, he watched through dazed eyes as his son was helplessly placed in the backseat of a car. his head was still spinning when the footballers let him up and chased him back up the levee. he and his family watched in tears as the car holding his son and the picnickers drove off. the dogcatcher arrived hours later, tipped off to their location. the father led his family of four, used to be five, as they fled; thinking how his children never could to get that right.

nother cover

concrete jungle (fff#2)

again, big up sweet trini for pursuing the revival. this week's inclusions were: crumb bum thumb rum dumb the bum looking back at him needed a shave. the crumbs in his newly overgrown beard represented the last of his food which had represented the last of his money and he remembered feeling dumb to think that his small amount of cash would have sustained him longer than his first nine days in the big city. the dumb feeling was fleeting at best as there is (perhaps surprisingly) very little time to sulk when you find yourself living outside the walls of the concrete jungle. self-preservation skills kicked in almost immediately and he learned very quickly that living in this jungle was much like a war; a constant territorial battle, protect what's yours while still scavenging the landscape for every resource, trust no one. he had initially tried the shelter across from the nineteen-dollar-motel he resided in his first two nights where he would receive a hot and a cot but found himself too paranoid of the other occupants to sleep, clinching his bag to his chest, listening to the countless other cots speaking with... whoever. there was so much talk in fact that it was impossible to distinguish those who were engaged in conversation with the fictional from those were just crazy. the shelter's frequent screams, random gibberish and endless crying (man, woman+child) were simply intolerable to him which is how he found himself, three weeks later, beneath the stairs of the loading dock at the warehouse theatre staring at into a mirror. he knew it wasn't a great squatting spot, but made the most of it. a broken recliner made for a great chair with it's back propped up against a wall and made for a decent bed when the weather permitted. the unusual climbing temperatures had begun to melt snow+ice which dripped through his wooden roof and when accompanied with occasional rain would leave his chairbed soaking in a puddle. fortunately the dumpster that sat opposite the steps had a lid and at least provided him a dry place to be during the storms. nightly he would watch his face go dark in the mirror before he lit his tiny fire and eventually attempted sleep. on this particular night however, he laid awake on his still damp chairbed continuously flicking his lighter (also damp) in hopes that he might catch fire to the cigarette on his lips and the small kindling he had become accustomed to gathering each night in an old clay pot that used to hold the soil+remnants of some neglected office plant. warmth+light; he needed both. he flicked his lighter at least a few hundred times before his thumb was sore and he began contemplating a walk to the flaming drum at the entrance end of the otherwise pitch black lot. two veteran homeless had built themselves a refuge of cardboard+tarp over the last couple of weeks. he had watched the buildup of cardboard with some amazement as it seemed at times like their structure had multiple levels, though it consistently required fresh, dry cardboard and never looked the same way twice. he exchanged words with them the day they arrived but beyond trading some smokes for a small cup of their rum they weren't really interested in any pleasantries. he had been apprehensive about speaking with them ever since. if his lighter wouldn't ignite he would surely have to ask the certainly inebriated gentleman across the lot for a share of the light+heat source they were hovered around in what seemed like celebration. it irritated him to hear them joyful. what could they possibly be happy about? his lighter, low on fluid, flicked the tiniest flame for just a moment and his natural inclination was to draw it to the cigarette. it lit and the flame went out. he flicked his lighter a few dozen times but somehow knew it wouldn't light again. instead, inhaling hard on his cigarette he sat up, grabbed some newspaper from the clay pot and tried desperately to use the burning butt to start a fire. with no success, he lit his last cigarette off the first just to keep an amber burning and continued his challenge. little red snakes of light chased each other around the edges of the paper but wouldn't catch into flame. blowing on them in hopes they might grow only put them out or blew them apart into momentary fireflies in the moist night air. the paper simply wouldn't light and before he knew it his final smoke was out too, leaving him again in the cold ominous dark. he thought briefly about whether it was cold enough for him to die, but never allowed those thoughts to take hold of his conscious before he stood, planning to walk toward the fire at the other end of the lot. the earlier aggravating laughter had subsided and the figures around the light had disappeared. he prepared himself, lacing up boots and slipping on gloves, and began through the darkness toward the soft orange glow. he slid on a few patches of ice along the way but never made sound. as he approached the light he noticed the taller drunk had stumbled through some of their home, knocking it the ground where he evidently decided to spend the night covered in blue tarp they had been using as roof. the other gentleman was no where to be seen and presumed inside the remaining structure. finally standing right next to the flaming metal drum he enjoyed the heat a moment while he contemplated his next move. everything in the drum was burning enough that he couldn't take a piece back with him as he had planned and would need something to light before heading back beneath the steps. he looked a moment for something to light and thought about going back for a piece of the kindling he had collected in his clay pot. nothing flammable on the ground and no desire to turn back, he kicked the flaming drum toward the cardboard structure. flaming debris showered down upon cardboard+tarp and the structure was ablaze. he waited for screams+movement, but the drunks were drunk. again enjoying the warmth a moment, he grabbed one flame-less corner of their home and pulled. the house collapsed upon them. he rolled a cardboard torch out of what he thought must had been their front door and walked it and the rest of their rum back to his dwelling. lit his fire, drank his rum and slept... well. perhaps he should have left, but didn't. upon police questioning three days later he simply said he never spoke with the two men who tragically died in the fire. "one night they there, the next morning up in smoke. i figured they burned it themselves and left." not a rare occasion among bums. "it wudn't until i smell 'em this morning that i call you cops." "and you never spoke with them? know a name?" asked the officer. "sir, i trust no one. speak to no one." the police put him in the cruiser and took him away as their only suspect. he would spend the remainder of the winter months in jail: 3hots and a cot, cable television and a library, a roof and all the smokes he wanted. he smiled as they drove off, happy to have a place to call home.

the triumphant return of fff (#1)

gotta bigup sweet trini for reviving fff's. they were why i started a blog in the first place. i wasn't sure i was gonna get to participate in this 1 as i was without internet access most of the weekend, but i found myself attempting it in the wee hours this morning. i'm not thrilled with the outcome, but perhaps you will be. enjoy. it was the smell of cinnamon, ginger+peaches replacing the ganja smoke that had been hovering over my terrace all evening. those sweet smells stopped my guitar dead in the middle of cat's the wind and my thoughts drifted toward the origin of that aroma and the house to my left. mrs. jones didn't bake pies. she didn't set them out on the sill to cool but those scents emanated from her window just the same. in the heat of the summer mrs. jones showered with the windows open and from her steamy shower would come essences of cinnamon, ginger+peaches. i allowed my mind to drift into the air a moment with those scents, thinking about mrs. jones soaping her wet beautiful dark skin, curious as to what she was getting clean for so late in the night. earlier in the spring that smell had saturated my sheets on several occasions and anymore smelling her only made me want to taste her again too. she suddenly appeared on her terrace, white-robed and spliff in hand she flipped open her mobile to call, i assume, the reason for her 1am shower. she took a seat in the wicker chair closest to the railing we share without acknowledging my presence, speaking in low tones to her phone. i was quick to grab my guitar and play so she knew i wasn't interested in her talk, but couldn't help looking over at her sexy-crossed-legs stretching out from beneath her robe. smoke began to fill the air again but her sweet scent seemed to cut through the smell of burnt herb+paper. i got lost in the music a minute watching my fingers on the frets and when i looked up mrs. jones was doing the same thing; now standing against the rail, robe nearly open and in perfect contrast with her skin. she offered me the spliff and again the music stopped as i walked across my terrace to accept her gift. i took the spliff and she quickly turned, tightening her robe and twisting her hair up top of her head. 'you can finish it,' she said, 'i hafta be getting ready,' and disappeared back inside. i returned to my music after adding a clove cigarette to the end of the roach, deciding i would wait to see what kind of fool showed up at her door. when my next clove burned out i stepped into my studio apartment, guitar in tow, to grab a long sleeve as the night air had gotten much cooler. i flicked on the light setting down my guitar flicked off the light upon site of my bed deciding my ganja filled head would rather just rest. i collapsed onto the bed and plunged my face into my pillow before rolling over to stare at the silhouette of the ceiling fan wobbling above me. suddenly the fan lit up with white then red lights from outside accompanied by some a bass line that i recognised but couldn't place. music+light disappeared with a car door followed by footsteps to a terrace not my own. i passed out. sometime later i was awakened by some gentle tugging of my johnson. my wife had evidently returned from her girl's night in a good mood and i'd learned not to pass up such opportunities. how often is she the drunk one afterall? i roll to stand at attention and her lips wrap around my dick; first one set, then the other. she does all the work and comes rather quickly. i join in the second time and she quickly unveils my johnson, wet and still standing at attention, to the world. it's like getting out of a hot shower and drip-drying in the dead of winter. i'd never complain. i roll toward her very naked, very warm body and slip back into sleep. in the morning i awake and the world comes into focus. the wife is standing in the kitchen 10 feet to my left preparing breakfast. i lifted my head from my pillow enough to ask 'how was your girl's night?' 'better than usual.' she said. 'glad to hear it.' i replied, as i stretched+rolled over to her side of the bed. and there on her pillow; cinnamon, ginger+peaches. mrs. jones. i was wide awake.

a bad combination

...only in new orleans.

paradise?

12june

play

thoughts from a mile high

(started in dca) i hate/love to fly. i don't care much for the bullshit security checks and the nonsense safety announcements at the beginning of each flight ("the illusion of safety" (tyler's words coming out of my mouth (i couldn't resist))). and the act of being herded down that small tunnel before being mashed together in our tiny little metal tube always reminds me of cattle headed for the slaughterhouse, ulitmately penned in shoulder to shoulder destined to share the same (un)timely fate. my penpal will likely moo+maw from takeoff to landing; forcing the typical pointless conversation, refusing to see the book in my hand or, if i can manage, my shuttered eyes. occasionally, i get corralled next to a beautiful or interesting heifer which could possibly inspire quality talk (1 such occasion sat me next to a very pretty red girl with the thinnest, tightest dreadlocks i've ever seen), but i usually find myself next to a heavy-breathing talkative type, smelling like they've already been seasoned with onion+garlic. (continued in phl) sleep is always my first attempted course of action when flying (the night before a flight i tend to distract from any rare inclinations of sleep to increase my chances on the plane), but if i'm not out before takeoff any additional effort is futile. i always book a window seat because it's impossible for me to fall asleep without something more than the headrest to lean against, and if we liftoff while i'm still awake i'm able to enjoy my trip... i'll watch our world turn into a quilt of coloured patches woven together by stream+treeline before rising into another world of lesser known terrain. white clouds create land+sea. they blanket like a rolling desert or are sparse like a thousand islands in the sea. sometimes they tower upward like the treetops of the rain forest or are simply massive mountains. enough wind and these cloud worlds roll+crash like ocean waves. these worlds often layer atop one another; clouds turning to land+sea as we glide through each beautiful skyscape. the horizon line appears infinitely distant up here; the suns soft glow constantly rising to light each world. 1sun, 1light, several beautiful worlds. it's in these moments+visions that i find it impossible for me to do anything but reflect on our world, our life, my life, myself and the human experience. self-analysis is a constant process, but looking out among the clouds seems to always provide moments of clarity. at least once my reflection will be interrupted by desires to fly without the plane but absent of hollow bones+wings, i realise the impossibility and instead intend to sky-dive sometime soon. sometime after the plane soars past the upper tier of clouds, my mind will drift and i'll soon crack my book until we begin our dissent. as we travel back toward the earth i always seem to wonder what the world below me would look like without our influence. would it look quilted with forest, field+water? would the only paths carved into the surface be those left by water and wild herds of goat, buffalo+elephant? would it be more green, and less brown? would it be better off? i tend to think so.. (continued in ida) sitting in the terminal provides me with another favourite activity: people watching. airports mash us together and it's a great place to sit+watch the interaction. i'm a voyeur by nature; always studying others to learn about we humans more so than the individual(s). hundreds or thousands of people all in contact with each other trying to avoid contact. right now i'm watching the youth from @ least 3different families run around the terminal playing some form of tag; all completely oblivious to their differences and all the parents extremely aware. it begs the question: why don't we continue to get play with each other like so? when does that child-like nature dissipate and we're suddenly so cognizant of our differences? these differences, for some, will always be too large a barrier to overcome. suddenly there's an empty between each of us while we wait for a plane where we'll inevitably be forced to sit side by side. some would even prefer stand before they sit beside a stranger. don't get me wrong, as i mentioned earlier, i tend to not go out of my way to speak with strangers but it's because i like to remain private and have a naturally introverted tendency. still, airports really are a great social experiment. i love/hate them. (completed+revised back in nola)

hopeful music

there's something incredibly sexy about female bassists like me'shell ndegeocello whose strong, smart lyrics and often dripping wet vocals only add to her ridiculous sex appeal. well, there's another hot bassist on the rise. esperanza spalding is an amasing jazz artist whose charm+passion radiate through her bass, her voice and her smile. esperanza could do great things for modern jazz as me'shell has similarly effected neo-soul. both artists come with highest recommendation. enjoy.

boleros+blues

i'ma continue to catch up on past posts. this one is particularly tough, because i had originally decided not to post anything of this experience until my right mind made me think otherwise. the post never got published clearly, so reminiscing now is a difficult challenge. i'm not going to change what was originally written (18.7.08 11:09pm), just adding my thoughts of the process now and attempt to tie down loose ends. 2years after 3canal's caribeana imperia @ gala hispanic theatre, i was called upon by gala to design video projections for the premier production of boleros+blues: the life of agustin lara. i was excited @ the opportunity of working in a theatre that had long ago held such good memories for me and this time was giving me the opportunity to working with director; abel lopez, imperia's lighting designer+good friend; ayun fedorcha, and friend+gala's technical director (at the time); brendon vierra. the process, @ times, was certainly jarring, and everyone who worked on the show seemed to say 'this was just one of those shows;' but the overall experience was nearly pleasant. not 1design concept seemed to come together with any ease; not a single win without hours of painstaking pushing, prodding and pressure... +hundreds of hours of manual labour. set design definitely had the worst of it, though lighting+video design certainly had their setbacks, 1 designer's problems endlessly effecting the others successes. video projections, 1 of theatre's many spawned technologies, are usually last considered in design+process as the medium's functionality has yet to find it's proper place in theatre. i'ma point out the obvious right quick. theatre gave birth to video so to see video return home as it continues to find a more prominent place in modern theatre creates an interesting+exciting relationship between the 2forms; mother+daughter. i have already drawn out the technical plans for a show using multiple live video feeds of actors off stage from 4corners of an in the round space while action continues to take place on stage. my initial thought was someone dealing with multiple personalities, but i'm really looking for someone to write the right play and someone to fund what would be a technically stupid expensive show. like too many of my ideas, it'll probably never happen. back to boleros+blues. 3different projectors from 3different points each with 2different lens, squared+keyed onto the correct surface 6times, with the solution inevitably being the shortest+simplist cable run: 7500k lumen w/ long throw lens shot right from on top the lighting booth which unfortunately meant moving 2 of the hanging light fixtures out of the throw of the projector 24hours before opening the doors. borrowing projector/lens combinations from the job meant a good few extra hours in the office, but the 70+ hours i spent using the offices editing equipment creating the videos were fucking awful. it wasn't the creation, it was the extra time 5stories below ground in a place that i loathed. i even drove out to a friends place in damn near falls church 1 terribly stormy night just to break up the monotany of the office. with all of the technically difficulties i was still programming final cues 10minutes after the house opened for the 1st preview which i eventually fell asleep watching from the back row which is why when our director asked me what went wrong with the last (most important) video cue, i could only reply 'i don know.' our sm, francoise (1cool girl), later told me the technician rushed the cue. i left the theatre that night returning only to strike+return borrowed equipment to the office. as i heard it most of the designers chose to miss the opening night festivities as i imagine they, like me, were still too stressed out to enjoy ourselves. the run went well and got some good reviews. had i not moved to nola i would've been designing for 2additional shows with the gala last season. i've included some of the stills i created for the show though the more impressive creations are easily the numerous videos, particularly the final video where the actors froze on stage and my projection was accompanied by lara's beautiful music.

how to keep...

while googling just now i began typing my question and got as far as 'how to keep...' into the search engine before google gave me their top 10 suggestions. they were: how to keep a man how to keep a conversation going how to keep score in bowling how to keep an erection how to keep apples from turning brown how to keep an idiot busy how to keep a girlfriend how to keep your man how to keep pipes from freezing how to keep weed fresh ... none of which applied.

.. and back again

i've said that dc would be the last place i'd live before leaving the country. that statement remains true. i was in dc a few weeks ago (took fung to see scw @ wsc, raged with mundy, etc) and the short version of the story is that i haven't really felt right since arriving in new orleans and was amased at how quickly i got my head right while in dc. my creative process+productivity has slowed to a crawl while in nola and i'm left wondering how much i might have accomplished had i never left. i'ma not rush back because my isolation in new orleans is giving me plenty time to self-evaluate and there are still things to learned from that process. in that sense i've accomplished so much. + my creative output has improved last couple weeks which helps deter the worry. i'm just clearer+calmer in dc. i'ma eventually figure a permanent way back to dc and be outta the country thereafter. ... 'less i can get myself outta the country first. (added 7:09p, next day) talk soon. ps. i'm writing again... for the first time in well over a year. hurray.

art+letters

some time ago sweet trini introduced me to a website called art+letters which archives wonderful articles that stimulate my mind regularly like this short article updating us about the link between creativity to psychosis. what follows is a multimedia mashup of art, letters and the psychos creating it. things that have excited or impressed me over the last while. links galore. i first+foremost gotta bigup wsc's production of tennessee williams' small craft warnings. the redesign of the clarkstreet lobby into monk's place was great. feeling like an old patron of the bar as i watched the story unfold around me, realising that while these fellow patron's had come in+out of each others lives from time to time, they were all pretty much alone in the world; like single vessels passing in a thick fog... and i reflected on my own life. the direction of jay hardee and performances by talents like christopher henley, mundy spears+kari ginsburg were incredible. after meeting, kari granted me the great pleasure of designing her new ink which we already know i like a lot. from my last stomping ground to the current, i seem to not be the only 1 to have recently made the trek. creator of the wire, david simon has started production of treme filming here in new orleans and picked up by hbo. i ran into comedian, steve zahn a few month ago in the quarter and come to find out he's the lead in simon's post-katrina look at the famous mid-city neighbourhood of treme; known for being home to the musicians. the wire spoke so bluntly of inner-city society for 5years and i will definitely be interested to see what treme has to say of new orleans and society now. next is nola artist, craig tracy. i came across his paintedalive gallery in the quarter some time ago down on royal. if you're someone who recognises the human form as an art form as i do, you'll love the way the brush strokes work with the lines of the body. unfortunately some of my favourite works of his aren't in his online gallery. favourite works = beautiful colourful thick curvy women. the last nola related art was introduced to me via a video of artists from around the world singing+playing their own rendition of stand by me. 1 of these artists was grandpa elliott, a local street musician who i had the pleasure of joining in singing sitting on the dock of the bay just weeks ago after speaking with the man a while. it was a great couple of soulful minutes for me, regardless my abilities as a singer. anyway, after very brief research i found out that this video is the first episode of many like videos for a movement called playing for change which was created by marc johnson with the purpose of unifying every creed+race through the power of music. it all started with stand by me 4years ago and the latest (7th) episode, war, no more trouble (below) was just released and may be my new favourite. as said, the movement stars artists from across the world, past+present, including house favourites bob+manu. my 1critique would be that this particular cause absolutely must have current caribbean artists involved and has none as of yet. however, i must commend the editors on their work. while the video editing is good, the audio editing is incredible and deserves it's own praise. in another musical update. dj dangermouse, who has his hand in more projects than i had realised, is fighting with emi records about the release of his new album dark night of the soul. as a result he has decided to include a blank cd-r with each copy in spite of emi. mouse's new album will also include a 100+ page book of album inspired photos by david lynch (writer+producer of films like lost highway+ muholland dr) if+when it is ever released. dangermouse colaborates with dj sparklehorse on this album along with many other artists and you can currently hear it in it's entirity right now on npr's website. give it a listen for free while you can. i also gotta mention yahzarah aka purple saint james and yusuf islam aka cat stevens. yahzarah is a rising r+b singer outta nyc who is fine+talented. i'll be looking forward to an opportunity to see her perform. yusuf has just released roadsinger, his 1st album in 33years. i love cat's music and can't wait to hear what yusuf learned while converting to and studying islam. lastly, this commercial for honda is an amasing rube goldberg-esque display of physics. no cgi was used and it apparently took 606takes to catch. cool shit. ... and with all this pop culture popping up in this post, i oughta mention chuck klosterman's sex, drugs and cocoa puffs. great book. my own art sooncome. talk soon.

mauritius

i was watching a documentary about mauritius the other day and by the end added it to my list of places to visit. if you don't know mauritius is a group of small islands about 900km east of madagascar. the country of nearly 1.3million people is made up of african, indian, creole, french and chinese cultures practicing predominantly hindi, roman catholicism and muslim. citizens speak either english, french, hindi or mauritius creole and there is no designated official language. children typically learn in both english+french and public education+transportation are free. all of this is to say that mauritius is an extremely diverse country, and celebrates that diversity instead of mashing us all up into the same culture. in the states we've become nothing more than a culture of consumers; sheep. we are simply a part of the herd, here to help drive the machine and push the economy. they will take our wool time after time and when once we get too old we'll be killed or abandoned to make way for the new lamb. we've been sheared of our individuality and left with no stories, no history, no memories of who we are, what we believe and where we came from. there was a great quote in the documentary i was able to find later to share with you that speaks beautifully of the way mauritius embraces diversity. a cardinal from mauritius, monsignor bargeau is quoted as saying "we should consider each group, racial or cultural as a fruit: an apple, a pear, a mango. we want to make mauritius not a marmalade, where we mix up everything and grind everything and end up with one marmalade with one taste. but we would like to have a fruit salad, where in a fruit salad each one retains its individual flavour and taste." talk soon.

once again...

... (echoes of john legend) i've found myself mentally+emotionally distracted away from this blog. 10days ago i told you posts were coming and i know we're both not surprised that nothing has been posted. still, i do intend to post soon. company arrives late tonight and through the weekend, so as soon as my role as host/tour guide is over, i'll be posting. please hang in there.

posts past future

i mentioned several things i told you i'd be posting on in my 1 post i was able to manage in march, but with all that's transpired i don't find myself with the energy to now relay to you the obsolete. i don't want to be a liar though, so i will say something about each topic and get around to other post-promises i still haven't lived up to. the job is a job. the pay is decent and the more hours i can work the better. overtime seems to be the only way i can save any money. carnival season in nola was funnish but like most things in this city revolved around alcohol+fried food consumption (i ignore the fried food whenever possible), though i will say there were more beautiful costumes there than i expected. my sister's visit, immediately after mardi gras was probably a once in our lifetime gathering. we had a time. drink. food. laughs. though i'm sure we'll never lime like that again. my apartment still needs settling. i still feel like i'm squatting and can't wait for the opportunity to move back to dc or elsewhere. past-post-promises and hopefully plenty more sooncome. talk soon.

earth hour

world wildlife fund's earth hour 2009 is coming this saturday, 28march @ 8:30p local time. 60minutes without running any electricity to the give the earth a brake from our constant consumption. the website provides you with a list of things to do. i'ma participate by rolling a spliff and clearing my head on the terrace. you should too.

the 3rd world of the usa

february had me busy with plenty from the job, carnival season leading up to mardi gras, a visit from the sister (a first of it's kind) and the continued settling of my apartment. these are all noteworthy topics taking away from my footballing+art, but will wait as i've gotta empty my mind of a few thoughts first. "dc is the 3rd world of the states." sweet trini said it first but it's something i've since heard repeatedly across the dc metro area; typically when speaking about dc roads. having never spent real time in a 3rd world country (not yet anyway), i trust that those who have and then made these statements know what they're saying. they do. i spent 3years driving around dc so i know how terrible those roads are; worst in america, or so i thought. 3months ago i moved to a city held in regard as the true 3rd world of the usa; new orleans - something the locals state with pride and the tag line picked up by every news station after hurricane katrina. once pirate run and french owned, the near 300year-old crescent city has preserved it's way of life through isolation from the rest of the country (the next major city is at least 250miles away). the locals work hard to hold on to their history+culture and keep modern usa out, passing traditions, food+festivals down through the generations. now as i said previous, i can't speak on 3rd world countries, but i can speak on dc roads and now nola roads and gotta say that nola roads are the absolute worst roads i have ever been on. on the surface, nola roads and dc roads are plagued by the same problems. both cities have huge potholes causing endless construction to patch the roads which somehow leaves the roads more uneven than they already were. they both have a gross of 1way streets that don't need to be, adding to the confusion; particularly for the dreaded tourists. both cities are full of asshole driver's, even though they are very plainly completing different kinds of asshole. dc driver's will cut you off, fail to signal and generally pay little or no attention to their surroundings while behind the wheel. nola driver's pay plenty attention (too much in some cases; stopping for others that don't even have the right of way) but they will run you off the road (i've seen it), run a stop sign/light and use the shoulder to beat traffic whenever they can. that said, the width of roads in nola varies from streets like canal which was once the widest road in the country (6lanes, 2streetcar rails down the middle) to roads like calhoun+pitt which are 2way streets where even 1car might drop off into the ditches that line either side of road with just a degree of error. the ditches, obviously designed to gather water and keep the streets from flooding don't work. roads flood with any decent rainstorm forcing rerouted traffic on the regular and occasionally forcing me to drive through freshly made pools deep enough to flood the car a bit (not the engine luckily). being on the mouth of the gulf means plenty cargo ships+trains blowing their horns+whistles all too often. include the bells from the streetcars and you have industrial music, you also have far too many railroad tracks; great for fucking up your already destroyed suspension and alignment. oh, and more than half of the railroads don't have operational xing warnings so you'll wanna look both ways before crossing the tracks. all of this car chaos is to say that for a city that requires a car, new orleans roads really suck shit, far worse than dc and thus, judging by the opinions of others, worse than or at least comparable to 3rd world roads. the thing new orleans got right that dc completely fucked up (something i despised while living in the district) are stop lights @ roundabouts. nola has none, dc is full of them. stop lights @ roundabouts is truly moronic. i always thought that roundabouts were designed to ease the flow of traffic from multiple directions, decreasing congestion - yield, yes, but to stop defeats the purpose completely, am i right? talk soon. ps. read sweet trini's post on the subject. she makes valid points about 3rd world-ness; tackling issues like crime, class, school systems and more instead of this sour bullshit session about poor road quality. i know nola has the highest crime rate, the highest illiteracy rate and awful school systems but hafta do more research/need more experience before i post on those things.

news

i'm too excited about my new bed (1st real bed in 10years) and my new sexy boots (1/2 off) to write for real tonight. i'ma instead get me some good rest in preparation for morning football and i'll try to post for real tomorrow night. in the meanwhile check out my new sexy boots and be jealous. talk soon.

whole truth

having now visited at least 7 whole foods organic markets in 5cities i'm even more confident in my assessment that the most beautiful, kind, and interesting people can be found in a whole foods market in any city lucky enough to have 1. if you're not a whole foods shopper by choice than i'm sorry for you and you probably don't care or understand what i'm talking about. if you're not a whole foods shopper because there isn't 1 in your town than i'm sorry for you and encourage you to walk into the store at your first opportunity to see what i'm talking about. if you are a whole foods shopper than you likely already know exactly what i'm talking about, but i'll go on anyway. in a conversation about this with sweet trini years ago, her immediate response toward my calling whole foods patrons beautiful was "duh, crazyfool. of course." and, of course, she is right. duh crazyfool... the most beautiful, most kind people would be those trying to remain as pure as possible by eating+using organic foods+products and eliminating toxins from their bodies+lives. eating+living more naturally makes for a better, healthier quality of life and thus invokes beauty+energy, i get it. i suppose after finding the same to be true over+over again, including here in new orleans i figure it was time to post the theory to get it off my mind. some people don't understand the whole foods concept and thus never get spending a little extra money for healthier living. "why would anyone want to spend $3 on a lemon?" is the question i've gotten before. the same person told me they felt like whole foods was "some kind of cult of eco-freak" and perceived the patrons as egotistical; "as if they're better than me because they shop organic." i argue however that what some may mistake for elitism, isn't at all, but is instead a common respect between customers+employees alike which comes with smiles, head-nods and the occasional banter in passing or waiting to check-out. (i often feel i can even tell which employees believe in the principles of their store and which just do the job for the paycheck.) the respect held for each other mirrors the respect we each hold for our planet; understanding the give+take relationship between mother earth and ourselves which is at least part of the reason for our continued visits anyway, right? organic/green living is often a huge life-choice that we eco-freaks welcome the fondness of feeling surrounded by people who supposedly think like ourselves particularly when we could easily be saving $ by following the flock down the street to the local supermarket, or worse, wal-mart. strength in numbers; each of us feels good about trying to do our part to keep the world beautiful and even better realising we aren't the only ones putting forth the effort. the world appreciates our effort and returns the favour, thus whole foods patrons are beautiful people. talk soon.

living not so big and not so easy

if you're the 1person who checks up on my blog from time to time then you already know i've left lovely liberal washington, dc for supposed warmer climates in the big easy; new orleans, la. first, i admit i'm sorry i had to leave dc before the history-making inauguration of mr. obama, though from the sounds of things back in the capital the local washingtonians are already well annoyed+frustrated with the thousands upon thousands of out-of-towners; foreign license plates cluttering intersections and making wrong turns down one way streets. secondly, the entire northern hemisphere is experiencing an unruly winter cold and mid-30degrees fahrenheit was not at all what i was hoping for in the deep south. so i got myself an apartment with plenty more space than i need in uptown, new orleans that been staying plenty cold night+day. forced to buy a space heater to keep warm (something i thought i had left back in dc), it moves from room to room with me, whether i'm sitting in my fold-up-camping-chair in the living room or sleeping on my air mattress in the bedroom. i'll eventually get some real furniture, i swear. uptown is actually west of the french quarter+downtown nola, but it's called uptown because it's the highest point of the city - only 10feet below sea level instead of the 28feet below where downtown sits. i'm roughly 2blocks away from audubon park (named after the artist) which, among other things (including a tea house) holds a few football pitches and audubon zoo meaning i'm occasionally woken by the monkeys or elephants or both during what i can only assume must be feeding time, and can occasionally see the giraffes towering over the zoo fences on the walk to the pitch later in the morning. anyway, the move has cost me well more than i was originally expecting so it's good that i'm easily entertained by the cheap and the free. i keep myself busy with my football, my sketches (using a couple stacked empty boxes as a makeshift desk/end table/foot rest), and a seldom trip to neighbourhood bar: cooter brown's (love that name) for fresh oyster's and 400+ worldly beers to choose from. soon as i can i'll be buying a new scanner to post sketches and some new canvas to paint. and there will always be my photography. i'm excited to get out and take pictures of my new surroundings, sorry that i haven't taken the time yet, though in my defense i have been busy getting life in order. admittedly i really need to go back into my past of photos and get them properly archived on flickr, and certainly some here too. it'll happen. the job here in nola leaves me with more free time to focus on my art so i'm excited to get to producing. there are plans to eventually even have some new short fiction, some of which are already in progress. since my return to new orleans i've confirmed my thoughts about my abilities to avoid the guns and find the jazz once here to explore on my own. i had been told, and it seems to be holding true, that there is a great art community within the city. 1exhibition that i read about in the local paper but was only able to experienced a little piece of was called prospect.1. the project was the largest gathering of international contemporary art ever gathered in the united states. it opened in november 08 and closed this weekend. 1installation was found in the lower 9th ward, a section of new orleans devastated by hurricane katrina, where houses that were abandoned after the disaster were turned into massive pieces of art. while i never got there myself, here are photos of that project and many others that were a part of this huge exhibit. i've also been introduced to local band the zydepunks. the name speaks for itself. i've linked to their myspace page because i like the offered music selection, but they describe themselves as "new orleans cajun irish breton klezmer slavic zydeco" on their website. then these guys led me to balkan beat box, an interesting sound from nyc. between their site+myspace you can listen to plenty tunes. i can't talk music without giving bigups to 3canal as they present joy+fire which is launching tonight in t+t in preparation for carnival. wish i could be a part, of course. i definitely wanna experience a t+t carnival with 3canal someday, but this year i'll be celebrating carnival with new orleans mardi gras. i'm honestly not at all interested in a million people pushing me through their river of piss, shit+vomit so i plan to avoid the quarter, but i certainly plan to walk the 10blocks to st. charles to watch a parade or 2. nevertheless, i already know mardi gras never hold a candle to carnival in t+t. that said, here's 3canal's latest: boom up history. it is, of course, a real hot tune! talk soon.