The art of making meaning

Back in December, I told the story of a statue I'd purchased a few years ago as a gift to David. At the time, I thought it represented our relationship, but later realized it was more of a wish I had for the two of us. When we separated, I asked if I could take it with me.

The next man I loved commented that the statue reminded him of himself and me; the feeling of love and closeness we shared, even the height difference between us looked the same as that of the two figures. But after having suffered a broken heart by him, I threw the statue against the wall and watched it smash into a hundred tiny pieces.

Weeks later, I decided to replace the statue but the store owner didn't have another and my attempt to contact the Argentinian sculptress was unsuccessful. Months had passed when I received a call from the shop--a shipment from the artist had finally come in.

The new statue was similar to the original, but not an exact replica. What was most noticeable was the height difference between the man and woman--it was more equal, making this pair of lovers appear less like me and the man I loved, and more like me and the new man in my life.

But I decided the replacement statue would not represent me and my husband, or me and the man I loved, nor was it going to reflect the hope I had for me and the new man in my life. This time it would just be me, a symbol of the love I already had and might someday share with someone else.

When the new man in my life became part of my history, my heart eventually gravitated back to the man I loved and the statue returned to its former representation of me and him.

Last week as I stood knee-deep in laundry and in thought, without conscious intention, I knocked the statue off the table. It was broken.

I sat on the floor with the damaged figures in my hands, asking myself once again, What is the meaning?

I carefully examined the pieces.

Because of its weak foundation, the man and woman were broken from the base and separated from one another. But if a choice were ever made to rebuild, if stronger glue was used, the foundation could be restored.

Regardless of the break, individually the two remained intact, and when I turned over the woman, the only thing there that wasn't before...

... a chip on her shoulder.

Just a little chip.

Sitting at the sidebar

A real green dress? That's cruel.

Some like it hot

And so do I. But only to a certain degree.

In real time

Home now, the sidebar selection plays, and looking at the picture below makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive.

Alert!

I foolishly forgot to mention that the illusive blogger Annie Kosh has graced us with a posting.

Click here.

Sitting at the sidebar

Hungry For Your Love by Van Morrison

Atypical ten

Walking down Amsterdam Avenue, Annie and I pass the health food restaurant, "Ozu." She points to the sign and says, "Look! Just like the filmmaker!"

The way things aren't

The other day I saw a light blue, 1971 VW Bug parked on the street with a For Sale sign in the window. I thought the asking price was $750, after all, that's what I paid for my light blue 1971 VW Bug. But that was twenty-five years ago, and when I took a closer look, I saw the price was actually $7,500.

Leo Horoscope by Rob Brezsny

I happen to like The Bees Made Honey in the Lion's Skull, a CD by sludge rockers Earth. But I'm not urging you to get a copy of it so much as I'm suggesting that you carry out a metaphorical equivalent of what the album's title describes. This is a perfect time for you to create something sweet in a situation that once scared the sleep out of you.

Sound

I thought all my favorite trumpet players were long gone, but last night I heard my new friend Warren Vaché perform live, and discovered there's still at least one among us.

Listening to Vaché was like being transported to New York in the 1950's. His sound is achingly beautiful, both raw and refined, playful and packed full of the sweet sadness that paints a picture of the human heart.

Please click here to learn more about this remarkable musician.

3000th post

No fanfare required.

In my dreams

Last night I dreamed a man I love came to New York to see me. He was sitting at a bar when I approached him and moved into his space. I perceived his laugh to be a nervous one, and told him I suspected I would overwhelm him. Reassuringly, he took me in his arms, whispered romantic words and once again, I was a pacified kitten.

He told me he had to stop at his hotel and that he'd be right back. On the street outside, I waited and waited and waited, but he never returned.

I began cleaning the trunk of my car, tossing out bed pillows that had seen better days, then after taking one more look up the empty street, I decided to leave once and for all.

Wise words

My mother told me we (women) have to keep protecting ourselves from men... and keep forgiving them.

Communication 101

David: "It's going to be 86 degrees on Friday... I have to go to the dentist tomorrow... Did I tell you about the bites I have on my arm? Are you even listening to me?"

Me: "Nope."

Annie: "Well, at least she's honest!"

Tonight

I'll be here. If you wanna come down.

In the air

It's going to be a great day, I can feel it.

Two things I love about New York

My morning walk through the Heather Garden at Ft. Tryon Park.

When the Chinese food delivery guy rides his bike past the Mexican food delivery guy and shouts, "AMIGO!"

Joke by David

Q: What do you call a narcissistic cannibal?

A: Self-serving.

Fact # 14,977

When I was 17, I was shot at by a gang member.

Later, the police determined the bullet missed my head by about an inch.

In real time

Woke up smiling, another beautiful day, my mom and big brother just phoned from Ireland and June is right around the corner.

Parenting 101

Betta than bingo

There's never a dull Tuesday when you live in New York, and last night was no exception.

While I watched my good friend John Trombetta tear up solos at Swing 46, I sat stage side with the great Warren Vache who taught me a thing or two about jazz, and about my musical self.

In real time

I stare at the picture below and there is no me, only her.

On the blanket

Annie dreams...



Cousins talk...


The littlest eats...


and watches all the people.

Sitting at the sidebar

Off the beaten path but still, one of my favorite songs of all time.

The two of us

Family values

When I was a teenager and spoke to my mother about the matter of my virginity, she said this: "What I hope is that your first experience is with someone who has your best interest at heart."

After that, I spent the next few years as a serial kisser, until I met just such a boy. When the time comes, I will give my daughter the same advice.

In real time

Annie reads to Cousin Jack, the picnic basket is packed, and we're headed to The Great Lawn.

Pop

My father liked hot baths, road trips and opening gifts; he liked old stamps, old movies, books and comfortable shoes. He gargled in the morning, used bar soap to wash his hair, he ate cereal for breakfast and sang while doing dishes.

He would have been 76 today, and I miss him.

Sitting at the sidebar

Before I get lost in the weekend, here's a piece of music I got lost in this morning while washing the dishes.

Toreador by Steve Turre. Turre on trombone and shells, Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet.

Pretty things come to those who wait, so if you can, listen all the way through.

From pain to pleasure

Music on, the microcurrent machine works, and I love the little view outside my window.

May 23

What a difference a year makes.

Annie get your scissors

This is Annie my daughter and Annie the hairstylist. Annie the hairstylist is so good at her job, that Annie my daughter can no longer stay away from the mirror.

(Tai, notice the Goats For Peace t-shirt?)

A pain

I'm so much more comfortable with emotional pain than I am with physical pain, and for the life of me, I don't know what I could have done to cause a pinched nerve in my left leg. I've had no sleep, will be in bed much of the day, and both my left leg and I will miss seeing Steve Turre tonight at Smoke.

Ugh.

Sleeping honey

In real time

Up at five, Bill Evans and coffee, and those birds--I can hear them so clearly now.

Humor from another planet

Annie: "When Bruce visits again, I want to show him the youtube video, 'Shoes'."

Me: "I don't think he'll like it."

Annie: "How come?"

Me: "I don't think he's a satirist."

Annie: "But isn't he into astronomy?"

David: "That would be a saturnist."

Sitting at the sidebar

I haven't been feeling quite whole these days, but when I listen to Mr. Morgan and Mr. Shorter play Mr. Kenyatta, all the pieces start coming together.

Click the music player to the right and listen.

Blog clog

I love oranges and sour candy but not orange sour candy.

That's all.

k

Evolving 101

When I go to sleep at night I wait for the sun to come up, and when the day is over I wait for the moon to rise. I wait for a knock at the door, a promise, a party, or a moment of awakening. I wait for inspiration, a creative surge, another kiss or good cup of coffee. But mostly I wait for a time when I'm not waiting, when I can see the sun outside, hear those silly birds sing, and taste the good cup of coffee I hold in my hand right now.

Fast cars & bad boys

Santa Cruz California, 1987--my boyfriend Aaron called me from work and asked if I had his car. I assured him I didn't (I had my own), and he assured me that his was not parked outside the restaurant where he left it (India Joze, for those who'll appreciate the reference). Immediately after I hung up the phone, this is what happened:

I had the idea I could find the car, so I grabbed my keys, climbed into my '64 Dodge Dart and started it up. And as I pulled onto the street, just like that, Aaron's Toyota hatchback zipped right past me. With no time to process this most unusual occurrence, I put the pedal to the metal and took off after the little white car. Now here's where I'd like to unleash the part of the story where a wild chase ensued, but in reality it was just me, traveling at average speed, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver who was seemingly unaware I was in hot pursuit.

With no obvious destination, the hijacked car darted in and around side streets, and as I carefully watched the needle on my gas gage approach empty, I continued to follow closely behind. Then suddenly, the mystery driver of my boyfriend's wheels took off, and when it got too fast for me to safely keep up, I pulled over, called 911 and reported the incident. I don't remember what happened next, maybe I went home, but more likely I went straight to the restaurant to tell Aaron my amazing tale.

Two days later, the stolen car was pulled over by police and the thief, a 15-year-old runaway boy, was apprehended. The interior was a mess, the engine shot, and in the back seat was a thick wool blanket, a pack of condoms, and a paperback copy of The Outsiders.

No charges were filed.

Blog clog

I love cherries and peppermint candy, but not at the same time. At least for now, that's the best I can do.

Goodnight.

k

Atypical ten

Annie: "What movie should I watch tonight? Gypsy, The Great Race, The Beatles' Help, or Teenagers From Outer Space?"

Better than speed

"Watching Speed Racer in IMAX was like mixing magic mushrooms with crystal meth, then washing them down with a jumbo box of Crayola crayons." ~David Kosh

Sorry for the silence

I've never been good at doing more than one thing at a time.