havana, cuba

the nickname of my room, which feels, on a good night, like the tropics - at least 10º warmer than the rest of my apartment, due mainly to the fact that i keep my door shut at all times for fear of clay, our black cat, or rather for fear of his hair all over my things.

new york is so cold my face hurts. the wind is raw, uncompromising: winter is here to stay, friends. snuggle up and hold tight.

i have fought (mostly on the phone) the last few days as a patient advocate for myself. pharmacies can be frighteningly against the welfare of their patients. my conclusion: duane reade is the devil. meditate on this next time you swing by to nab a new prescription...

2010 is fast approaching; what will be in store? on my docket are a solid translation of goethe's faust and jonathan harvey's nataraja (for flute doubling piccolo and piano) whilst training to tutor for 826nyc, dave eggers' outfit in the back vault of the brooklyn superhero supply.

and so it goes, it goes.

fresh

i've met the merry band of musicking kids with the newly minted juilliard historical performance program, and i must say i'm impressed. they played a concert at paul hall last week to a nearly full house...i am in love, so much love, with telemann's paris flute quartet. adriane post (fiddle) and andrew arceci (gamba) were formidable. i look forward to increasingly daring programming and devilish music that tragically isn't heard enough in new york city.

saturday saw me between libraries (NYPL and BK central branch) dropping off scores and picking up an armful of fiction in the dying afternoon light of grand army plaza.

sunday i shopped, oh did i shop, for a few christmas presents down in the 'hood of dave eggers' adorable brooklyn superhero supply company. a can of intelligence for the office party, a copy of eggers' wild things book for lukas, a long brown corduroy jacket that fits me like a glove. it rained and rained and rained...

...and after produce at russman's i booked it to (le) poisson rouge for a hilarious show by the ensemble acjw, ever full of surprises. the nightclub setting ultimately worked in their favor - stockhausen's tierkreis swung and jostled everyone's waltzing heartstrings; luciano berio's oboe sequenza and it's ever-present b natural was evocatively spun by heartthrob and rock star james austin smith; jon deak's b.b. wolf, rendered expertly by memory by bassist evan premo in a wolf hat and tail, bemoaned the discriminatory literary tropes of the lupin creature (tango and blues, amigos...with howling); biber's sonata representativa - owen dalby, violin, with supporting cast - evoked all kinds of animals while adhering fast to the conventions of 16th century counterpoint; davidovsky's synchronisms no. 9 for solo violin - yonah zur - weaved and spun itself around the electronic sounds, which to me evoked a wind, rather than a stringed, instrument; finally, daníel bjarnason's bow to string, originally for solo cello plus a lot of prerecorded cellos and arranged especially for the ensemble for the evening's performance, proved haunting and delectable. i'd like to hear more from this guy.

and so, it seems, i am taken by this ensemble. at least in concept. with that, i leave you, fair readers (however few), to cook.

dithering, dabbling

this weekend, i returned to the brooklyn public library (grand army plaza) to return apollinaire caligrammes, iris murdoch's the black prince, peter høeg's the woman and the ape (pure genius) and italo calvino's under the jaguar sun for works by janet frame and reine maria rilke, among others.

i caught a few concerts of note:

• bang on a can all-stars and trio mediæval gave quite a performance of julia wolfe's steel hammer at zankel on saturday evening, which reminded me simultaneously-at once-of a mix between louis andriessen, arvo pärt and aaron copland. haunting open harmonies, playful intertweaving of americana and tall tale. for one guy up in the mezz with me, it was too much - he stalked out, throwing down his program about 30 minutes through.
• the latter half of ensemble acjw's turn of schubert, curated by the genial alfred brendel, who i caught at age 13 in cheltenham, england, giving his last round of performances of the complete cycle of beethoven piano concertos with the london symphony. the "notturno" piano trio was particularly stellar: i was floating, transfixed, without a sense of the moment. the concert closed with the effervescent "shepherd on the rock" (for soprano, clarinet, and piano), handled masterfully by 3 delightful young performers.

i met up with the venerable composatrice zosha di castri to share thoughts about my MSM audition, among other projects. on the docket: jonathan harvey's nataraja, a light sonata by michel blavet, and a piece for flute alone...

joining the ranks

my pace is set now: up at 7 a.m., struggling in the dark, showering blindly, drapes closed; dressing in the clothes and jewelry i'd picked out the night before; cereal and milk + a shot of orange juice; 5 minute walk to the train; picking up the W at 8:30; out at carnegie by 9:15; in the office by 9:20; solid work day with an hour's lunch, dreaming within the pages of tana french's in the woods, accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich; out on the street at 5:30; W to the R; C-town for last-minute groceries; home. bam. monday to friday, sold.

the c.e.o. of the place where i work, in one word: inspiration.

soon, amigos.

syllables

i take solace in words. unlike most i do not imagine the goins-on of a book cinematically; rather, the words flow over me like a hot shower. language - the sound and the weight of it - has long transfixed me. the exquisite translations of pablo neruda's poetry and amos oz's the same sea are gems in my ever-expanding, resplendent literary closet.

currently: the pulitzer prize-winning amazing adventures of kavalier&clay by the effervescent michael chabon of wonder boys fame; i have dipped my toe in james r. gaines' evening in the palace of reason and am intrigued.

we survive in installations, between moments, amongst one another and yet quite alone.

in a few weeks, i will toast the new york sunset on a park slope roof, smiling slightly in the face of a stranger who is my roommate. i will get a public library card, walk the streets to get a sense of place, join the ranks of brooklyn-manhattan rush hour commuters. i will thrive.

shout

• margaret (M) and her discourses on the occasion of humanity;
• B: a guiding light for we stray sheep.
  

new york was productive. heartening. i had a few job interviews. being across the street from carnegie hall, catching a few performances here and there, dreaming of being backstage, ready for my close-up...

i missed nick's show at the stone, as well as talea's joue of stockhausen's kontakte (anthony cheung, piano and alex lipowski, percusson).

i identify the ride from new york to b-more with fried chicken, biscuits, baked beans, and (a new addition) chocolate milk.

now, to the grindstone, of sorts. making decisions about auditions, repertoire, strategizing for the imminent. perhaps an october weekend in montréal with natalie carducci in tow?

in search of:

an inspiration. a sign. a bolt of lightning. my late-night interest in david copperfield wanes; amos oz's the same sea waits on my deep yellow shag carpet, untouched.

shortly, i will away to new york, stay with charmaine uptown, work for the league for a few days, visit old friends up at purchase, lay down a few funky flute sounds for marc wolf, and on my way out miss nick's solo stone gig.

newly minted: my own fancy flash website. (in progress)

discovery: the very cool, sparse yet rich art+culture site.

pattie

i would like to know a guy named paulie and ride a bicycle with a peppermint stick in my mouth. to roll with the punches.

predicting

being jobless, young, without much work experience, with too many degrees, in this economy, is risky.

i am passionate about tutoring, teaching flute to kids who haven't been touched by the rampant adolescent jadedness, working on musicals where everyone has good creative energy, and playing music that forces me to take a second, or third, look.

i struggle not to take personally every absent email or call from a potential employer. i'm qualified to do this work; why not call me? you stand to gain more than you stand to lose by doing so. it's a tough scene; i should've set myself up for it better.

lynn's compadre from her madrigals group at the rennfest yesterday liked my self-dubbed moniker: "marauding martha."

this week: wednesday, "glee" party with richard, pizza, twizzlers, ice cream...is this what i wish high school had been? sticky fingered sugar high, tripping on my own pretend happiness? it truly was the apex of our teenage lives, with a relentlessly regimented schedule, like the army with more social hierarchy and less yelling. i've convinced myself over the years that the few mentions i got in our senior year yearbook signified that i had made something of myself. now i realize it was only in mr. wright, our militaristic, baptist preacher of an AP english teacher, who saw beyond what we were and peered into what he hoped we would become.

wince: reality

i've been home a few days now and know that traveling this summer was the right, if untimely, decision. i risk nothing by sending out a few resumes, putting out feelers.

between new mexico and europe, i crashed for a couple of nights at jake's apartment in queens. i knew that i would be without constant access to a computer for nearly 2 months, which was exhilarating....free! unbound! unreachable! myself.

i came across the inimitable nick at quiet jam session in new jersey on a raining june evening and can't (won't) forget it. 

returning to france - specifically, to paris - after two years' absence was a poignantly nostalgic experience. nothing, and everything, had changed. 

someday i would like to play music with mira benjamin's beautifully reckless abandon, alexandre's expansive curiousity, and nick's incorrigible exploratory thirst. i can only strive.

now playing: ali farka touré, "tchigi fo"

very nearly returned

last night i was in the company of a few lovely domaine forget-ers for dinner (burger with avocado and onions - feve, anyone?) and leave today for new york to work.

i have been absent, but not for quietude's sake. i have been traveling on and off for the last 2 months or so, encountering incredible landscapes, places, and folk (sans doute).

i will be sporadically posting photos, perhaps even creating a snapfish link within, if possible.

i started mid-june with a 10-day séjour to new mexico with my mother for topaz's wedding. topaz, the pirate-clad creative anachronist who grew up as a tibetan buddhist in the wilds of santa fe, wed in his brother jeff's backyard (albuquerque or thereabouts) at sunset to the sounds of their favorite songs. perfect.

we spent a few days exploring albuquerque (really hard to spell) - i <3 nob hill, a 'hood right around the university, for its herb store and satellite coffee - , and then took the high road to santa fe (madrid! pronounced maa-drid, not like the capital of spain), stopping to see handmade cerrillos turquoise jewelry and take in the clean air. we stayed "comme l'habitude" at a beautiful inn with many hanging flowers all around and a charming marquez-esque ambiance. we wandered around old town hunting for good pieces of jewelry (a cargo woman weakness) and i tried to eat green chili whenever and wherever possible. on our way back through albuquerque, we stopped on the recommendation of a girl in a store in santa fe at a jewelry wholesale place that sells not only to the public but also to various dealers around the area (and beyond)....i found a fantastic ring that i now wear every day, sans cesse. more to come...

once upon a time

i was stuck in anton's apartment in stockholm in mid february without means to get out. now, fatefully it seems, i am sweltering in the midmorning early july heat in iván's paris studio waiting for my baggage. not the most thrilling or hilarious of exploits, but nevertheless i am falling under the spell of rushdie´s newest novel the enchantress of florence, reminding me simultaneously of 100 years of solitude and the moor´s last sigh. 

not to seem ignorant or judgmental but: i hesitate to succumb to any great writer's chef d'oeuvre because i prefer to be entranced by a book on its own merits, not by the reputation that precedes it. three cases in point: jonathan safran foer, everything is illuminated; milan kundera, the unbearable lightness of being; and dave eggers, a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. the first i read having heard magical, transformative things, so in a sense i had already set myself up for failure. i found the narrative convoluted and contrived at best, and so i followed up a few months later with his second novel extremely loud and incredibly close, which i treasured for its precociously naïve and hauntingly poignant narrator, oscar.

...not that you signed up for my rarely astute literary ramblings, margaret vignola, but when i have had my share of heady narrative for the morning and foggily reminisce of my erstwhile turn as children's book reviewer for Junior Editions, such is the result...

the second novel, by kundera, had received brilliant and reverent accolades from every source, it seemed. the story for me was neither revelatory nor charming. i later gave kundera multiple chances, finally loving laughable loves if only for its sentimental proximity to hanif kureishi's spellbinding collection of short stories, midnight all day.

dave eggers sits in a strange place with me. i had first heard meta, a beautiful, if slightly spacey, cellist from rice rave about it the summer i spent a few weeks in colorado springs. i was still in the thick of my southeast asian lit phase, scribbling book lists for anyone who cared, espousing my passions for kureishi, roy, kunzru, mistry, et alia. so, when i approached this tome by eggers i was disgusted to discover word vomit from an american writer with an overwrought sense of self. when diving into the purchase library's collection of african literature in english, however, my interest was piqued when i discovered that eggers had ghostwritten the gutwrenching and staggering memoir what is the what. 

my conclusion? just because you win a booker, or a pulitzer, or a great Times review, does not grant you license to follow up with crap literature. for me, i know i should stop with this negative slander and just buckle down and read joyce's odyssey, chased by the boris vian and italo calvino narratives that have thus far eluded me. 

to be continued from acanthes...

ahi, vita mia.

uncloistered's recording of monteverdi's "si ch'io vorrei morire"

i leave for france tomorrow (!). 2 weeks in acanthes. what will it be like? i can only speculate.

so, amants, my blogging will be anything but constant over the next month- 3 weeks in france, 1 week in istanbul, sans laptop or much in the way of spare change for internet cafes.

ghostlike

i am remiss.

after a brilliant show at miller theatre june 10, i sped away (with the generous help of the lovely önder cebeci, full of yummy turkish-style eggs and faux champagne) for home (b-more, ish). my mom and i jetted to albuquerque for a wedding - topaz and abby (sp?) and their pirate-clad crew had the ceremony at jeff's place (topaz's bro, not really my cousin, but family all the same)...the sunset was absolutely glorious, the ceremony perfect, the mood tangibly warm - and turkey legs to boot.

next day (can i get this chronology right? we'll see...) my mom and i drove in our sage-colored cruise control-equipped ford focus up the turquoise trail to santa fe, passing through madrid, where my uncle chris and cec once lived and ran a montessori school, and i bought a bracelet, though not the needlepoint style that i had so pined for in old town albuquerque. we stayed at the el rey inn on the outskirts of town.

we spent the next day prowling around bandelier (no fear of ladders, not me!) and afterwards spent a bit of time at ghost ranch. it's fascinating to muse about what georgia o'keefe saw in the landscape...eva got me started at sharon's beautiful home, where we feasted on curried tofu, white rice with coconut milk, bbq-ed salmon and green salad. i had some wine before i was convinced to play a little flute for the crowd, which included my aunt and uncle, cousin lukas, jeff, his two kids sydney and jace, cecelia and sharon herself.

we went up to taos (now the days are bleeding together for me...), were a bit miffed at the sheer touristy-ness of it all, quickly saw the museums we wanted to see and got ourselves post-haste to the pueblo, where i mostly tried not to direspect the space by talking too loudly or too fast, or by taking too many photos.

our last day we took the fast way back to abq and stopped at this wholesale jewelry place we'd heard about in santa fe. totally worth the stop - i scored a beautiful turquoise ring that is this milky green color that seduced me midway through our trip. after a last meal of green chile loveliness, mom dropped me by malli's house, a friend of topaz's that i met at the wedding, for an evening of rock band with people from the s.c.a. (society of creative anachronism).

i've been a few days in queens, crashing at jake's, and the smell of garlicky kale and israeli couscous is wafting through the house (housemates are cooking) and my left hand aches from erasing parts all day.

will i, oh will i, be able to move to new york?

seen but not quite heard

who: met orchestra, james levine (cond.), lang lang (solo)
what: stravinsky's petroushka and brahms' piano concerto no. 1 (d minor)
where: carnegie hall
when: thursday, may 21, 8 p.m.

sneaking in the back gives me the sensation of being a phantom, a nobody. we stood for the fist scene or so of petroushka, in the center back, behind the press section. the near-silence, neighbors quaking and gaping at extraneous sounds, heightened the already-present reverie (reverence, would you say?). it was as if i was seeing an old familiar cartoon in vibrant technicolor: suddenly folk tunes (trumpet, clarinet, melancholy english horn) sprang from the underlying texture...the brass truly outdid themselves tonight. this orchestra has an absolutely hypnotic way of executing a score. levine is masterful, without a doubt, but what is most magical is that the orchestra leads him. like most collaborative pieces with diaghilev and the ballet russe, there is a certain snicker and wink to the ending, as if stravinsky fell off that particular horse, an ADD, musically collaging folk hero onto his next quest mid-voyage.

after glimpsing the petites luxes of patron life (nuts! free wine! coffee! tea! and idle chatter with the other supremely rich!) during intermission, we assumed our spots in the back (i perched on a stool) for lang lang's performance of brahms' first piano concerto in d minor.

ok-yes, fair readers, i tend to gush with trite praise...lang lang's first movement - all ozawa-esque hair a-flying, big diving arms, stern pedal stopming - all seemed to me a bit superstar contrived. he's famous, brilliant, etc and not for nothing: he puts on a show. before the second movement, as i braced myself for a semi-slaughter, the orchestra took a collective breath and drifted into a dreamscape of bittersweet romance tinged with melancholy - as acknowledged in the program notes, brahms wrote the adagio for clara schumann; both were devestated following robert's suicide attempt, subsequent hospitalization and eventual death. he pined harmonically, waxing contrapuntally poetic, exploiting the enharmonic possibilities of leading tones - a certain method of seduction that would've had me hooked.

still, despite all of the gorgeous playing between soloist and orchestra, i wish that lang lang had tempered the sf accents more; witholding (clearly) takes infinetely more patience and control, akin to masking any possible tell in poker. the third and final movement, a rambunctious rondo, was clean and brilliant, yet somehow left me cold. great playing all around - the orchestra seemed to enjoy a good roll in the hay with symphonic repertoire...

and oh, those acoustics. the winds and brass were spot on, and the timpani magically aligned with lang lang at all the right moments.

brava, tutti.

ahoy!

ever since my days as a dj on wobc, i have engaged in a romance with radio. particularly poignant: from the first of this month, return to the scene of the crime, "this american life" (p.r.i.)

i ate lunch with my ever-hilarious chums at l'escale yesterday - a glass of california pinot noir with an app of warm goat cheese and roasted beet salad, followed by a short rib panini (decadent but delicious!). we shared a dessert of fried bananas, caramel sauce, and banana ice cream (yum yum).

i drove into manhattan for a last lesson with tara before i head out of town for the summer. she's taking two sewing machines plus ample fabric from mood to make funky, loud shirts and gowns on the road to spoleto (south carolina). danny's bringing a bunch of coffee makers- i guess we all have our fixes...

i dropped by tj's to buy some sausages and boysenberry fruit leather and then texted google for the address of ltk in greenwich. oh, green curry...

Jenny Holzer: Protect Protect, including “Red Yellow Looming,” above, is at the Whitney Museum of American Art through May 31. 

carnegie hall orphéeic magic

monday evening i snuck some photos of the stage at carnegie hall (3rd row!) - no musicians or stage lights, just the empty stage. the haydn symphony was dazzlingly clean. seeing orpheus makes me wonder why we all can't conceive of orchestral music as glorified chamber music! the musical ideas for each piece are generated by "core" members of he orchestra, and the act of listening is so intense and intimate that it almost feels selfish to spend money on a ticket. it's not so much about owning the music, but rather about respecting eachother's musical space.

the rorem set was wonderful to see if only for the fact that a singer was leading a small orchestra! a personal favorite was the final song, "alleluia" - jauntily and slyly employing mixed meters reminisent of neo-classical stravinsky with the trasparency of early ives. sitting so close to susan graham was a little unnerving: at the start of the set, she seemed stiff, stoic; by the middle, however, she was completely in character, balls to the wall, unbeatable. after intermission, ravel's pavane for a dead princess, led by cal wiersma, was absolutely gorgeous in a hauntingly effusive way.

todd phillips led a romping rendition of stravinsky's danses concertantes, which explicitly reminded me of the octet and symphony in c.

i met up with my luminous pal clio for hot chocolate made with milk (yumm) and a split piece of cheesecake (though we thought it needed something tart and fruity, not caramel sauce, as a finishing glaze).

new york minute

i left my cell phone in a cab today outside the whitney, and by some miracle a very kind guy was able to meet me at a bar on the upper east side to return it.

New York, like Paris, is conceptualized in terms of one's proximity to a subway stop: take the train to 87th, walk over a few blocks, turn south and walk down some more. at some point i stop taking everything in to focus on my destination. street corners blur together, cabs honk and swerve without identity, random strangers meet eachother's glances - smile, scowl.

i realize what i crave about New York is the sense of utter possibility of having an audience, sharing art, n'importe quand, n'importe où. people, faces drift through the city like singularly unique cirrus clouds, somehow crystallized yet mobile. maybe that's why people stare so openly on the train: they are finally able to focus on a single face, to register the harmonious (or un-) features so artfully combined - the way people comport themselves is endlessly fascinating, from incredibly think eyebrows to a proad emasculating squaring of the shoulders.

p.s.

this is my corner of the internet sky, so comment away, mes amants.

listen listen

last weekend (i'm late!) was the look&listen festival...i saw some great art at ok harris and gary snyder/project space, met some stellar personalities - the inimitable mark stewart and fresh face victoria bass of bang on a can all-stars; the charming and musically eloquent jade simmons and svet stoyanov; blogger extra-ordinaires bruce hodges and karissa krenz; so percussion (and their fifth member, luca); fascinating violinist todd reynolds. i wonder, though: does it get lonely, this pursuit?

someday i'll have screenshots, a fleshed-out resume, a bio to speak of. this summer i look forward to some RENCONTRES DE MUSIQUE NOUVELLE avec martin matalon (argentine/IRCAM), denys boulianne, jean lesage, et le NEM (montréal). je suis flûtiste, entendez-moi hurler!

tomorrow i hit carnegie hall for orpheus + susan graham in concert...it pays to be friends on facebook!

maybe karissa is right - that you have to post at least a few times per week for anyone to pay attention. i might be m.i.a. for a spell this summer, but i will do my best (unconscious reference to fox's "dollhouse").

current fixations: herbie hancock's joni letters; issue 07; short films made by people i know; performances involving lamps and interesting distortion effects; simple, clean design; the idea that maybe, someday soon, i will be gainfully employed.

this is the face of dreamy contentment, one reconciled to the fact that it couldn't get much better.

lately

i've been swept up in rehearsals and various things, to the point that i haven't given much thought about the next, oh, 6 months or so. most recently the plan has seemed to be to attend acanthes in austria for two months (music of ivan fedele, bruno mantovani, and hugues dufourt, instructed by the inimitable mario caroli), travel to paris and nice for 2 weeks, hit istanbul for a few days, then back to north america for the domaine forget new music workshop in late august (martin matalon [ircam] will be there). it would be lovely, if i weren't already so broke....

but i digress.

• wednesday april 15, 8 p.m. : jean francaix, sonata for flute and guitar (marc wolf, guitar);
• thursday april 16, 4 p.m. : j.s. bach, triosonata from the musical offering on natalie carducci's senior violin recital (gozde yasar, 'cello and onder cebeçi, harpsichord);
• saturday april 25, 5 p.m.: my final masters recital. repertoire to include telemann sonata in f minor, godard suite, schubert arpeggione sonata, and philippe hurel eolia. my cousin will be there. so should you;
• april 24-26, friday (8 p.m.), saturday (8 p.m.), sunday (3 p.m.): a series of one-acts....puccini, gianni schicci and suor angelica plus the world premiere of raphaël lucas' confessions, a prologue to suor angelica
• Look&Listen Festival, may 1, 2, 3 at OK Harris Works of Art (Fri) and Gary Snyder Project Space (Sat, Sun). tickets are $10. look for me whilst i tear around the galleries.

i have recently discovered the wonders of, in no particular order: savall and the concert des nations triumphant opening to monteverdi's "orfeo" on youtube; the resplendent voice of jessye norman in strauss's last songs; and the aphrodisiac that is sephardic songs.

time

i need a moment. i work hard and sometimes i think, for what? i'm questing for perspective, as vain and simplistic as it is.

i take surreptitious photos with my phone, as if life exists only in fleeting moments, a doorway here, a wild sunset there.

we have a concept. i auditioned for manhattan school's contemporary program last week, and i felt good. nørgård was solid, insistent. i need a moment to take it in, again.

does the numbness fade with sleep? one can only hope.

inspiration

merci, wikisource.

"Clé de sol"
André Breton

à Pierre Reverdy

On peut suivre sur le rideau
L’amour s’en va

Toujours est-il

Un piano à queue
Tout se perd

Au secours
L’arme de précision
Des fleurs
Dans la tête sont pour éclore

Coup de théâtre
La porte cède
La porte c’est de la musique

pique

i am not convinced that eighth blackbird can be repeated. it's been done. poof. i rather like manhattan sinfonietta's concept - their performance of martin matalon's ircam-ridden score to fritz lang's "metropolis" was nothing short of spectacular - and they manage to emerge looking and sounding effortless.

so will this rock band materialize? mr. wolf, mr. wise, ms. tilton (if she's still in town)...i know not how, but the idea of collaborating in tiny spaces with writhing bodies and twisting shadows of light appeals. tatyana does it weekly with the raw and the cooked at the tank-why not us, now? i am daunted, slightly, at the prospect of dipping my toe in this medium rife with competitive creativity.

everything that expands must also, at times, contract. a wise fortune cookie told me today to (and i paraphrase) act without the expectation of success. therein lies the paradox: we must plunge because otherwise how else can life continue, music evolve?
----------------
Now playing: Marais, Marin - Suite For Viola Da Gamba & Continuo In E Minor (Pièces De Viole, Book II, Nos. 96-110)
via FoxyTunes

once upon a time

there was a girl who quaked at the thought of big city life. she still hibernates late at night in her small bed, but the landscape has changed. she's seen paris, she's ridden the A train, she's taken a bus through the atlas mountains in morocco, a budget flight to stockholm in the dead of winter, a train to grenada from a dismal spanish port town, a van ride to chichen itza (Chi'ch'èen Ìitsha'). she is no longer tethered to quiet suburban life, dreaming in tactile realities, oren's cappucinos on weekday mornings, blue sky muffins at midday, throbbing calves from pacing the streets of a city humming with life.

yesterday, amanda, tears in her eyes, spoke of the worst in her life coinciding. i told her that it was going to snow. today, the sky is clear.

tomorrow, possibility.