never regret the cake and the food and the laughs and the drinks. her birthdays are the best days.

animalbehavior y me

words on From Jump

From Jump is a collection of short stories about emotion. Tangible and intangible feelings concerning love, pain, sex, fear and trust. My favorite aspect of the writing is how controlled and vulnerable it is. The perspective is focused and it’s written in a way where more than one interpretation is warranted. If you are a fan of words and interpretation, this is a good read.

via Dopart

With the River

The heartache lived within her for over ten years. She did the math after her fourth psychiatrist discussed her medical history on an early October morning. She was nine or ten or eleven, and thought, what was so bad then. Thought what was so bad now.

Months went by as she slowly stopped seeing that fourth psychiatrist. On a recruiting assignment with a small temporary agency she worked at, her boss asked her if she had been keeping up with her shrink appointments. She stared at the resumes on the desk in front of her and promised she’d start a new search in the morning.

She spent her days enjoying what she could. A comforting cup of coffee, emails from crazed men, a new foundation she’d pick up to cover up the stress that shown on her face. She enjoyed bookstores with a rare Americana section, giving up her seat on the train to people with crutches, bad songs about good sex, and counting the broken light bulbs on Boston’s Citgo sign. After hours in a café with free wifi, she’d found a psychiatrist, a private practice in Beacon Hill. The doctor accepted her insurance, she’d go in, say she couldn’t wait a month for an initial visit, and make her boss happy.

The day of her forced appointment she wore brown leather boots that she laced to the top, a colorful floral shirt and a black sweater. The receptionist called her name. “The doctor will see you now.”

He opened the door.

She walked behind him.

In his office, he closed the door after she took a seat. She looked up from her boots to his face. He had subtle freckles on his cheeks that you could notice only if you looked hard enough. Like the beauty mark she knew of somewhere on her face. The green of his eyes looked at her. He asked about her morning.

“I actually have to go to work,” she said.

Before he could react she got up and left. Out of the main entrance. And on to the street. Sitting at a café two blocks from the doctor’s office, she created a message to her boss, said she’ll be in late. She wanted to get a manicure or a massage before going in to look at resumes and her boss’ eager disappointed face.

“That was the quickest session I’ve had in years,” the doctor said standing across from her table.

Startled, she closed her laptop and grabbed her purse from the chair he stood behind. He sat down.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“There’s no book in front of me.”

“I read your file last night, said you like to read.”

“Is that how you spend your nights, reading about lost people?”

He slid a cup of coffee, and three packets of sugar next to her laptop. She looked at the coffee. Wanting to say thank you. Black coffee. She needed milk and more sugar. But there was no way her body would allow her to step away from this odd encounter.

“Why did you leave? Is it because I’m good looking?”

Her eyes glowed, and laughter escaped from the depths of her heart.

“Yes. Exactly. You’re too good looking for your profession.” She poured the packets of sugar into the coffee. “Can’t you get in trouble for this?”

“You’re no patient of mine, you left. There’s a bookstore a block from here, let’s take a walk.”

She grabbed her purse and followed him out, the black coffee staying behind.

“How do you think things would have turned out, had you stayed and talked to me?”

“First meetings are always hard. I usually feel fine. So I’m not inclined to talk about what I see, as my horrible life. I would have told you that I walked across a river yesterday, stopped, stared at the water. I cried until my contacts got really dry. I started to rub my eyes. Then I looked at my fingers. They were black from mascara. I reached in my gym bag for makeup remover pads. And though it was dark I could see my little face in my little mirror. I wiped the black away from my face, but left it on my hands. It’s okay for my hands to be dirty. But not my face. Oh, I also would have asked you if you watched the football game last night. There was a fan in the crowd crying. Tears just falling down his face.”

“Was he really crying?”

“No, it was probably just the wind.”

“Let’s go in,” he turned his head to the bookstore.

“I have to get to work. I’ll see you next week. Same time, but your office. There’s a lot of wind out here.”

“murderous writers with no law or control.”

it was more hope than it was lust. it was more fear than it was hope. there was the idea. there is the idea. that his thoughts and words and images that represent him. are perfect. there could be walks after dark. there could be dancing after hours. there could be smoke. and wine and skin. things bare. there would be fear. he could be just what she thought. a face timeless a smirk telling. but no words. a man amongst men. many men. or more fear. deep fear. a boy amongst boys. the thoughts and words and images give. something. good and perfect. the things that happen with girls and boys. the things that live with women and men. and he’s still perfect

title via johnny killeface

treat me like your mother.

de lchecks.

The human mind will not focus when it is hot.

Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: The cat’s going to the bathroom right in back of my portrait.
Edith ‘Little Edie’ Bouvier Beale: God, isn’t that awful?
Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: No, I’m glad he is. I’m glad somebody’s doing something he wanted to do.

Edith ‘Little Edie’ Bouvier Beale: You can’t have your cake and eat it too, in life.
Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: Oh, yes, I did. I did, I had my cake, loved it, masticated it, chewed it and had everything I wanted.

Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: France fell but Edie didn’t fall.

Edith ‘Little Edie’ Bouvier Beale: It’s my mother’s house and she owns it. She wanted the people she wanted in it, and she didn’t want the people that I wanted in it.

Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: You can’t get any freedom when you’re being supported.

Edith ‘Little Edie’ Bouvier Beale: This is the best thing to wear for today, you understand. Because I don’t like women in skirts and the best thing is to wear pantyhose or some pants under a short skirt, I think. Then you have the pants under the skirt and then you can pull the stockings up over the pants underneath the skirt. And you can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape. So I think this is the best costume for today.

Edith ‘Big Edie’ Bouvier Beale: My body is a very precious place. It’s concentrated ground.

from the documentary, Grey Gardens by Albert and David Maysles

Notes in the Square

He is standing on a street in Harvard Square waiting for the signal to cross
She is standing on the opposite side. Waiting. Pretending not to see him
He looks at his phone
She walks away, sits on a bench
Signal. He crosses
Approaches her on the bench. She is reading a book
They walk to the theater
She forgets why she came
An okay movie about fashion
They talk
She gets upset
There is emotion in his face. Lines of frustration
Forgets why she came
They kiss
His hand. Clasps on her back
Like a winter coat
She remembers why she came

From Jump

For Everyone.
Thank you to Bob Morales and Laura Checkoway.
Thank you for reading and downloading.
Thank you to men.
Thank you to women.
Take. Your. Time.
Tell me how you feel when you’re done.
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Photo by Ray Kairos

appropriate.12.09.

the blow – true affection

A Lucky Year

Lucky says that she is my backbone, crooked as she may be. She called with a statement memorializing herself in third person:

Lucky Torres states that her ink and expression will not end ‘til her life ends. When her life ends, that’s when the pain ends. The fans will know that it’s a final goodbye and a long-lasting memory of she. Many memories and not just for a day.

Lucky, does it have to be about death?

Somebody gotta die. People gotta go someday. You will too. When it’s your time, do you want to be some magazine editor? Or someone who makes stories about passionate people that have to do with real life and reality?! You want people to open they eyes! Open they eyes and keep them open.

“Fuck You down my thighs stands as a sign for the whole world. Fuck you if you like it, fuck you if you don’t. People ask me, Hey does that ‘Fuck You’ go for everyone? And I say yes.” Lucky

“This is my life map. I can look at each one of my tattoos and remember what was going on around that time.” Gotti

“The Good Die Young…people that didn’t get to live out their full life.” Siya

“The only visible one is Family First on my chest… my family accepting me made me into who I am without having to follow this straight path.” Dennett

Beginning words by Laura Checkoway. Photos and interviews from Urban Ink magazine.

Lucky, Gotti, Siya and Dennett are the stars of the upcoming documentary by Laura Checkoway.

Polanski & by coincidence, Van Gogh by Robert Morales

If there was ever a guy I’d like to give a free pass on protracted misery, it might be someone who’d suffered the Holocaust and the massacre of his wife, unborn child and friends – as well as the initial media blame for their deaths. But the point is Polanski anally raped a 13-year-old after drunkenly plying her with drugs and booze. He made those decisions. Later he copped to a generous plea, then understandably fled when he saw that plea wouldn’t be honored and he’d be made an example … but he’s guilty of hurting a kid. He deserves whatever judgment due him because in THIS society, we are not supposed to let people who hurt kids slide. If we do, what’s the point of having a justice system at all? Polanski may receive mercy in his sentencing because of the forgiveness of his now-adult victim and the mitigating circumstances of his flight, but it’s ultimately NOT about him, it’s about US not having the luxury of looking away.

I’ve been ruminating this weekend on Steve Barber’s Van Gogh question because of the romantic conceit behind it: Great art is born of suffering or madness or pain or some terrible sacrifice. Nope: Great art is born of insight and prolonged decisiveness. Countless micro-decisions went into “The Starry Night” … from how Van Gogh chose to mix his paints … to what visual effect one element in his palette would bring out in another … to whether or not allow an UNINTENDED result to stand … And so on. Van Goghs are really difficult to reproduce because of the magnitude of his technique, the way he applied his vision – it’s like the difference between a great photo of the Grand Canyon and, well, the Grand Canyon. Has it occurred to anyone that had Vincent NOT been fucked up, he might have been MORE productive? It’s extremely damaging to art and artists, this mythology that one produces because of one’s deficiencies not despite them. It’s a psychological handicap to artists that buy into it.

If you love artists, let them live no differently than you. Don’t romanticize their 12-step issues, make sure they take out their garbage, respect the need for peace everyone needs to work efficiently. Whatever judgment Polanski gets should be mitigated – like all wise judgments – by the circumstances, not because he got an Oscar. If you see a Van Gogh, remember that he didn’t simply throw up his tormented vision but fought past his own bullshit with such doggedness he could reach a level of clarity as to color, light, texture – the same satori that gave us the polio vaccine, flush toilets, and chocolate cheesecake, among myriad, fine things. Madness gave us MEIN KAMPF, genius produced THE TRIAL.

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