It was a cool, spring evening after the rains when I first saw you in Union Square. You were leaning heavily against the brick wall of the Barnes & Noble. Nothing housed in that cathedral of words could have matched the poetry of your slant, the pathos of your solitude. You had been left–but why? When I unfurled you like an early rose, you were strong. Under your bright, geometric blues and whites, the gray sky became again the vault of heaven. I took you home that day. Continue reading
There is an anecdote from Werner Herzog’s 2010 documentary film Cave of Forgotten Dreams that comes back to me often. Searching for the answer to the 30,000 year old riddle on the cave wall, Herzog interviews several impassioned eccentrics. Among them is unicyclist-turned archeologist, Julien Monmey, who tells a story of how a Western ethnographer and his Aboriginal guide came across a decaying rock painting in the Australian bush. The Aboriginal, saddened by the painting’s deterioration, began to touch it up, and the ethnographer, disturbed, asked “Why are you painting?” The Aboriginal said, “I am not painting. It is the hand of the spirit who is painting.” Continue reading
Below is my nytheatre.com review of the multimedia mind-melt 2 Dimensional Life of Her, currently showing through January 20th as part of the Public Theater’s Under the Radar Festival. If you are in the NYC area and enjoy beautiful hallucinations, you should see this show! (Aside: Speaking of hallucinations, I was determined to get this review in last night but somehow managed to stay up the entire night watching Whitney Houston clips and cat videos and only managed to start writing at the break of dawn. Continue reading
On Halloween night, my Keith Haring pumpkin (Keith-o’-lantern…carved Haringkin?) cast the only light in my blacked-out Lower East Side apartment. Hurricane Sandy was, and continues to be, terrible for so many people but my live-in man-friend and I were, thankfully, not among them. When we lost power on the evening of October 29, the first thing we noticed was the sudden absence of the city’s perpetual buzz, that near-imperceptible sound of urban life support in the form of countless whirring appliances. Continue reading
I am a tea-on-rainy-days and sweeping-skirts-in-rambling books kind of lady but I love me some UFC, and occasionally, an electrifying boxing match (see above!!). More than two men turning each other into well-tenderized meat to satisfy the blood lust of the masses, UFC is art painted with your fists. A good fight is brutal, funny and honest. A good fight is immediate.
And in our age of tweet wars and drone strikes and international quagmires, it feels good to see two people meet each other in an open space where the borders are well-defined. Continue reading
Bic’s girlie-pens have transported Amazon reviewers to a glittering apex of sarcasm, much to the gratitude of bored office workers and bloggers everywhere. (And imagine, dear reader, your indebtedness if you happen to be both, like I am.) But it seems the only discernible sin Bic committed was committing itself–by explicitly labeling the pens “For Her.” If it weren’t for that artless caveat, these pastel pens would have gone ignored just like pink razors, chartreuse hammers, puce penknives and whatever else people like me slap some lazy branding on to sell to…well, other people like me. Continue reading