Patient ~ Desire

Waiting.

Living.

Anticipating.

Knowing someday 

You'll find me.

These feelings grow 

In your absence. 

Longing for something

That has yet to be.

My heart

Wounded intentionally 

By imposters  
Aches.

Reassured only that it

Belongs truly to you.

Comforted by thoughts
Of when you'll be here.

I make my way forward 

Trusting that you'll reach me.

My heart starts to beat

Thinking of the sight of you.

I catch my breathe. 

Thinking of your touch.

I'm alive by mere thoughts

Of you

In my mind.

In you 

I've found myself desiring

The one thing 

I'm afraid of most.

To be possessed

Tied down and

Obedient to...

Someone.

~m.

Special

“How do you do it, Monica? What makes you so special?” Says an acquaintance of mine the other day. I instantly correct them because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of myself being more special than anyone else. I know I'm special because I'm me but I don't consider myself superior or more unique than others. 

I'm a bit eccentric. I have isms and quirks that are my own. I'm creative because I have to be. I work a day job because it pays better than my college degrees. I'm hardly wealthy but I am able to afford to do things I want to on occasion without worry about money. I write & photograph but I'm not famous or trying to be. I wish to be successful and make a living at these things someday. 

I tend to do things to set myself apart but as far as special & unique goes, I'm special because there's only one of me. For the most part I'm the same decaying fleshbag predominately composed of water as the rest of you. Yet there is only one of me and one of you in this world. In that sense we may not be as unique as a snowflake but people are special and not meant to be treated as a thing, an object to be passed over or disposed of... 

Love yourself enough not to let someone make you feel less than special because you are and I am. Fuck em if they can't see it!

Here's an old one from the D series about a man that treated women as disposable objects only special by their superficial qualities. 

**the new part of the D series is coming and I can't believe it's taken 5 years to get it just right! 

How long have you waited to finish a piece of work? Was it special enough that you were patient? 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Disposable

(2-17-2011)

Ephraim Rybe was a man who knew that nothing lasts forever. Because of this knowledge he wasted no time with anything. Ephraim kept himself moving at a constant rate to take it all in. He firmly believed that if you stayed in one place too long you might miss what’s coming next. Moderately the world moved around while Ephraim sped through it. He felt that everyone and everything was a portion sized serving meant for consumption at the most appropriate time. Everything in its specific amount of time. No more. No less.

And he came to this understanding by a lesson life once handed him. A lesson that no one ever forgets. Ephraim had once been engaged to a lovely young woman. A beauty known throughout any and all of his circles. However, it was not to last. The young woman decidedly broke the agreement for their pending nuptials and left Ephraim moving on and on by wanting less and less.

Despite his unfulfilled destiny, Ephraim Rybe had been known to be quite the ladies man in certain circles. A many times confirmed bachelor he had a new gal pal on his arm every week. And it wasn’t for a lack of interest in the opposite sex that he continued in this manner. In fact it was Ephraim’s distinct fascination with women that kept his interest peaked consistently.

More.

Some women will tell you they love a man with ambition. That it’s refreshing to meet a man that knows wants and wants more of it. Ephraim Rybe wasn’t that sort of man. He always wanted more but less and less of what was involved in that equation. He was never satisfied by one woman when he could have five, six, seven or eight. Tonya, Felicia, Amber, Tiffany, Renee, Sandy, Mae, Claire. There were so many more than he often kept a list. The list continued onward and grew by five more every time one name dropped off.

A man will tell you that his idea of a perfect woman might be the combination of some supermodels with a few characteristics of his mom. And Ephraim Rybe wasn’t one of those men. He didn’t believe in the existence of a perfect woman for him. The idea of some epitomized goddess seemed like complete horseshit when he had his list. Ephraim repeatedly thought why settle on one when there’s always the next girl to fill that void. At current he could decidedly pick from a few different girls to fulfill these needs that other men want in one.

If he wanted to bed a supermodels ass he could call Christine. When needing to talk about his feelings with a sensitive matron he could dine with Anna. For the eyes and lips of an angel came Claudia. An ideal woman mattered very little when he could have a single serving portion of variation whenever he wanted. And soon enough he would be rotating in another set. The changeover had become a necessary a change routine. Some women loose their charm the same way eating the same meal does. There wasn’t an exact science to it, only that they needed to go when they lost their flavor. And it was never the quite the same flaw.

Some had too much hair while others had too little. Some appeared tall while they were really short. Others had laughs like hyenas when others giggled in a way that sounded like a drowning puppy. It wasn’t that any of those things made then unattractive. It wasn’t that at all, it was only an excuse to move onto something else.

To ask this man what he wanted from these women would be meaningless. He wanted nothing in particular from any of these girls, only to make sure that there would always be one coming next. Beat the disposable woman to the plate. Leave her before she can leave you. And he had it down to a science. From the looks of any new woman he could tell you how long he’d spend time with her. Knowing full well how long he would take before he used her up. Ephraim didn’t care if a woman knew she was getting the boot. He figured he was gifting her with some knowledge. In a sort of sick way he thought he was sparing a woman the trouble of getting attached when things were already over.

Next.

Onto the next one. And without much to it, I just so happened to be next. The next on his list. I happen to have had my fair share of experience dating men with eccentricities.  Although none of which included beating someone to the punch of heartbreak. To be perfectly honest, “no” wasn’t an option with Ephraim. Ephraim pressed and pursued very insistent that I be at the top of his agenda. When Ephraim told me that our involvement would last exactly two dates and a few rolls in the sack, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. So I laughed even though Ephraim seemed quite serious. But I went along with it.

Going with the ride longer than he said. Long enough to know about the others which soon revealed more than I needed to know about the situation. You see there are some men who will tell you that they’re seeing other people. While others will lie about it. And then some want to pretend that there’s nothing before you happened to them because its taboo. Ephraim wasn’t at all like that. He kept things as real as possible. Too much real as a matter of fact. He nodded and smiled when he said there were others. It wasn’t news to me, but I could hardly contain what it all meant until he explained.

On an interesting cab ride back to his place, Ephraim took the time, that he never takes to explain about the others. Others that shouldn’t have been mentioned but needed to be explained once they had. And I insisted on knowing and encouraging. A curiosity that couldn’t be quenched once he’d mentioned it.

Something that I didn’t need to know as it never left my mind. The thought of being disposable and simply replaceable seemed to overwhelm my mind with thoughts that didn’t matter. The openness of his confession put him at ease and sent me wondering. I was consumed by the growing thought that nothing I did mattered in the slightest as he was already three deep into his next list of women.

The last night while he leaned in to kiss my neck, I sat thinking about Ephraim talk about the next one, Shelly or Sheila before telling me about Olga the dancer he had met after lunch with Hera. Somewhere between lunch and dinner, he’d been making arrangements with another woman and all I’d been doing was deciding what shoes matched with my new dress. My attention to him was disposable. It had simply been a choice of who to take home tonight.

Where did I fit on this uninvolved man’s list of disposable creatures? Not that it mattered in the slightest. His hands between my thighs mattered in the least. They mattered as much as which number of choice my Spinach salad ala carte with raspberry vinaigrette had been from dinner.

Ephraim wasted no time moving downward with his focus. Already thinking ahead, quickly his kisses found their way to my legs and I let him keep moving inward to work. It wouldn’t be long before it was over and I was merely someone else. And the more and more he pressed into things, the more I wondered about his list of women.

Even when Ephraim was moving his mouth in a rhythm all his own inside of me, I kept wondering the same thing: Would he be doing this dance with the dancer tomorrow night or the next. To Ephraim this was practice and preparation for the next act, with Olga, Hera, Shelly or someone else. When it became clear to me that I was no one’s trial run, I would get what I came for and leave him with none.

Closer and closer until the moment of release comes and goes. His arms find themselves around my waist when I say “Thank you, that was amazing. I’m done” and sweetly pat his face. His eyes look with alarm and his heart starts to race. Ephraim says “it’s my turn?” with the serious stare. His lips trembling waiting for something else when I tell him “there’s none.” So I tell him “I really have to go but I’ll get you later. Maybe next time. You understand?” and watch his thoughts crawl inside his head. I wait for something, anything to be said. When there is nothing I tell him “thank you again for understanding. I’m sure you can make other plans. After all you have Olga, Hera or Shelly.”  What more could a man need? And with that thought I left that impermanent man with his list of disposable women.

While Ephraim Rybe was too busy worrying about missing what would happen next he completely missed it without a thought of permanence because he couldn’t understand the meaning of disposable when it looked him back in the face.

Just a taste

Sometimes you just want a taste. I know I do. Look, I know y'all want a bite of the new writing that almost stretched Ms. M to the point of breaking a while back, don't you? Be careful what you ask for! It's coming! ;)

Anyhoo there's nothing wrong with a taste if that's your thing. ;) You know all Buddhism suggests is things in moderation. And you know what Ms M says: Too much of anything makes you an addict. I suppose even going without something long enough could be an addiction. ;) 

Here's an old one about a lady that just wanted a taste...

Do you like to taste lots of flavors all the time or are you more of person satisfied by one?

Enjoy

Kisses, m.

Taste.
(8-3-2010)

You’re not gonna get very far if you’re looking for love. I don’t believe this. But that’s what I’m hearing tonight from the man at the bar. He can’t believe I’m wasting my time with her. I tell him not to worry. It’s just a couple of drinks. Nothing really. He says he knows my kind. The same kind that falls in love at least three times a day. I tell him if I’m lucky… only three usually it’s five times. He laughs with me getting the joke. I buy him a drink before returning back to her.

She’s easy on the eyes and has a smile like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t look at me when I’m talking. Not the same way I’m watching her. And I can’t stop watching her. She’s watching the door, the floor and the back corridor. Head turns and she’s licking her lips. Soft wet lips that are toying with the cherry in her Midori Sour. Bright green sets off that fire engine red like a neon sign. Every syllable makes me swim deeper and deeper in the thought of kissing those fiery red lips.

From the first moment I laid eyes on her I couldn’t help but think of kissing her. That magic moment when I knew I’d never meet her then she walked up and said hello. “You can call me Daja.” So I offered to buy her a drink. Tells me I’m absolutely delicious beneath the dimmed lights. “Divinely delectable.” Then she licks those red lips and smiles before agreeing.

Daja isn’t sitting for much longer after we finish the second round of drinks. I try to leave and she stops me by feigning sadness over my absence.
“Don’t go,” she says.
“I’m only going to the bar. We need more drinks.”
“I don’t need another drink. I just need you.”
“Alright. Tell me what you want from me.”
“Right now, I want you… to sit with me.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Sit.”
But something has her attention. Within minutes she is excusing herself and off to the ladies room. I don’t know why she made me stay. I think I see her talking to someone in the tight expanse of the back corridor, but it’s much too dark. There are bright red lips leaning inward with arms circled around a tall dark body. But it could be anyone. I get up to get another round of drinks.

“She’s not the kind of girl you’re used to.” Pipes up the old man once again. He‘s nursing another long neck and I’m ordering another round. I tell him to explain. Says she just the kind for the evening. A bird that flies at night if I get his drift. I ask him what exactly is drift is. He says that there’s more to be seen by the likes of my kind. I nod and turn my head. The bartender tells me to keep it down and wait my turn. I look around for Daja. She isn’t back yet. I’m reminded to mind my own business in the company of strangers.
“Don’t be stubborn, now” he speaks up again.
“Yeah,” I try to speak without an attitude, but it’s hard to miss.
“Yeah that bird ain’t the scene. Watch your step around that one. She’s a bit wild.”
“Good to know. Thanks for the advice. Bartender those drinks?”
Bartender ignores me and keeps after the other patrons. Daja is no where to be seen. My strange friend keeps on talking. There’s a ruckus in the back of the bar, but the old man stops me quick.
“Listen up. Listen good. Better men haven’t been the same since she got her claws into em.”
“What?”
“Tell me the truth. Ever been in trouble? Cause that’s trouble.”
I shake my head, but he keeps on talking. Rumors and tales. I’m not hearing much, but it keeps coming. Hospitals, homicides and suicides. He goes through at least ten or more before I’ve had enough. Cause this last one has a pair of teeth in that bites into my head. Literally.

There’s something unmistakable about her teeth. I’ve been seeing it all night. I can’t completely put my finger on it, but it is completely captivating. The way she curls her tongue against the front and makes a whistle sound with her ‘esses’ is not like anything else. Far from displeasing like a lisp. Intoxicating. I think that’s why I prefer her talking. I’m absolutely hypnotized by it. Nothing I could say could be interesting. Even talking about her bubble gum flavored Tic-Tacs is captivating. All I can see is her mouth move. When it makes the shape of an ‘o’ it’s more than arousing. When she moves her lips everything I’m supposed to be thinking about is no longer important. I’d burn down the building if she asked me to. Hell, I’d kill the bartender if she asked me to. I want those lips. I want to tear them off her face and eat them I'm so sick with desire. I can taste her kiss.

Daja has her bright red lips wrapped around my neck in a tiny grip. Those lovely incisors are creating just enough pain for me to enjoy it. She reminds me we don’t need drinks. I agree and walk away. We aren’t in love, but this is more than just a few drinks among strangers. I ask her about the bathroom. She smiles and talks about a line. I just keeping nodding and we leave. I don’t know why we’re leaving. Daja keeps saying “Come on.”

There’s a commotion as we exit the bar. No one is watching us leave. There’s the shrill sound of several women screaming as we walk out into the parking lot. I’m watching her lips. Not her face. Just those lips. Focused. It doesn’t matter that her lipstick is smeared. Or that there’s a spot of something on her forehead. She’s watching me walk. Watching me steady, with a desire in her eye. Watching me the same way I was watching her glide through the bar earlier. I try thinking if she was there already and I can’t remember. That moment before her lips seems to go all fuzzy. Fuzzy like the light outside of a misty window. Not quite clear, but you know its day or night by the shape of the shadows.

She laughs and tells me “I’m hungry.”
“Let’s get something to eat.”
“Alright honey, how about right now?”
“There’s nothing here.”
“Oh. Don’t be silly. Of course there is.”
She looks me up and down then makes that “o” with her lips. That captivating outline. Enticing. It’s all over with again. I’m nodding. Listening.
“Now honey, you’re gonna come with me and let me have a tiny nibble on that lovely body of yours.”
“Yes. I will.”

It hurts so bad to hear the words, but I can help but go along with it. I could walk away but I don't want to. I’m hers and she knows it. That pretty smile and red lips. Lips I want to taste. Need to taste. I’m following her deeper and deeper into the nothingness of the night. I forget about my car. Forget I have a name. I just want to go with her. I want her to take a taste. It’s ok.

There’s nothing sinister about it. We’re walking in the dark until I’m completely enticed in a paralysis. Frozen as Deja undresses me like a peeling the skin off of a chicken breast. Once bare, she takes those pretty teeth and sinks them into me. It isn’t my neck or mouth she wants. I still want those lips. Completely aroused by their movements. I want them to chew off my face. But that’s not what she’s doing. I can’t help the satisfaction I’m getting as she devours my flesh. It’s absolutely gratifying and I want her to keep going. Keep tasting.

Piece after piece, paring as she makes her way up and down. Tasting. It’s intoxicating. I can feel everything. There’s nothing but those red lips. In this moment I don’t exist. I’m where I need to be. My body aches and twinges as she works. But I don’t want her to stop. More fulfilling than anything else. Those teeth are hypnotic. Every one of them. Razor sharp. Special. White. Brighter in the dark than the light. Something about them is still the same. I can’t place it. Smiling bright red lips look my direction. They’re slowing. I can’t see her face. I don’t care. Just those lips. I want them more than I did earlier. My mind is running towards it. Calling me. Closer. In my reach. A taste. A touch. A kiss. I’m alive by those lips. She’s done. I’m satisfied. I don’t believe it… Nothing else matters.

Zen

Someone scolds me a couple days back. People often scold each other don't they. Punish others for not doing as you wish them to do. Do you punish or try to hurt people for doing things their way? I digressed. Back to my lashing... I was told off two fold. One, that it was not my place to tell anyone not to read what I write for knowledge or lessons. And two, that I'm not a true Buddhist. So I told them I as I tell everyone I encounter: I will not force you do anything you do not want to do, including seek answers or lessons from me or hold them to be truth for you. But you may read here and gain knowledge or answers if you like. And no I'm not a true Buddhist & I may never be. I was raised catholic and I still enjoy certain spiritual beliefs associated with it.

Now I tell people to seek their own truth because in buddhism you are immediately told to question everything and in essence discover it for yourself. Indeed, even if it comes from books and wiser people.  Even one of my favorite very poorly adapted buddha quotes states this: 

"Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense." 

With people and the Zen stuff or a lack thereof it... I'm glad if anyone is affected, especially to discover your own truths from my words. And I'm sorry if anyone suffers. Spirituality is not for everyone but I really do encourage it in any form. You can take what you read for how you choose. It is your perception that makes you dislike or like the words or me. Not mine. When I find that I don't like something... I know that I need to learn something from that. It's not about the person. It's about me. 

Think back to the chicken I keep forcing down. It's not what it is. It's me. I am the reason it won't go down. Should I continue to make myself ? No, I am learning nothing from that experience, except how to make myself sick. Now if you don't want to take anything to heart that you read or experience... Don't. I really do believe the best Metta's are the closest people in our life; family, children, friends, etc. But other people can help us learn things we weren't expecting to. 

Let me phrase this differently. One of my favorite sayings is: You can't miss someone who doesn't miss you back. I am incorrect. Because you can miss someone, and it is sad if they do not have the same perception or longing for your absence as you do for them. Can you force them to miss you? No. But you can still miss them. I've learned that when people push me away it because of how they perceive me. I try not to take it personal because it isn't about me. It's their perception of me. Yes it is hurtful. But it isn't our place to judge. Does it hurt any less? No. But I can choose to suffer by it or not. Sometimes all you can do when you miss someone is give them space; it shows your respect for them. 

Perhaps people could try not to scold, punish or try to hurt others for not doing things their way? Or try explaining what it is they expect instead of punishing or trying to hurt someone for not doing it. I'm a romantic, a realist and I favor Buddhism, so I care a great deal and know true love is possible; it's possible for everyone to love each other unconditionally. I'm always happy to see others succeeding & improving themselves and disappointing when I see people hurting each other.

Here's a 300 about getting scolded... 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

HUSH.

1-22-11

HUSH! Be quiet. Whatever you’re doing. Please stop. That is the personal attaché to my last boss and he’s talking to the host. They’re pointing at you.  Look what you’ve done. Do you want to know what they’re saying? Come here. Excuse me. Let go of your arm because I’m hurting you? Well you’re embarrassing me. I can’t believe I brought you to this place and this is how you behave. I don’t understand why you can’t stand still and be attentive. What is the problem with you? You’re an attractive and smart woman that should be fine to hold a conversation at a function. Instead I’ve heard from the host that you’ve been playing with a waiter in the kitchen. Playing! This isn’t what I need to hear. I don’t need to hear that you’ve been blowing some waiter in the back of the kitchen. What the fuck were you doing? I don’t care if he’s an artist, a friend or the damn Pope. Look, just stop talking to the wait staff. These people have known me for years. I have a reputation to uphold. And next time you have to talk with your friend it can wait. Call him when you aren’t here. You are supposed to be here with me and presenting yourself in a manner that is appropriate to that capacity. Shut it. I’m not finished. I don’t expect much from you but right now a little bit of friendly towards my friends wouldn’t hurt. No. I don’t want to hear about the people at this party. Or how they bore you or what they used to be. And I certainly don’t want to hear how they are being something they are not. Leave? You wouldn’t dare.  I don’t believe you will. Now stay put… HUSH!

Let's Get Coffee Sometime?

Want to get coffee sometime? It's the simplest of things to say. Ok ladies, cause I couldn't leave you hanging! I know it's not Sex & The City insider trading dating info on men but a little suggest that I've used in the past... Coffee! 

It is a very great no pressure way to be friendly with anyone. Great convo starter or a way to just hang with a friend or family member. It was bequeathed to moi from a guy friend a long time ago. I told you I'd make an epic ass of myself throwing myself at a man. So I just don't. But I know a few great guys who look out for me sometimes & toss me some great pointers. 

Although I'm awkward at times... I do know how to be friendly. I'm betting all of you do too! Sexual innuendos are not flirting. Talking about conquests with other people is off putting. But... Offering someone coffee is a very cool ass ice breaker to be friends or even more. This doll wants you all to be happy! Good Luck & Godspeed! 

Here's a newer 300 about coffee! 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Coffee

 

I could’ve stayed in drinking coffee.

But I didn’t. 

We could’ve met somewhere else.

But we didn’t. 

 

My mind spinning and filling my present

With too many thoughts 

Of the unknown.

Waiting for a moment.

Looking a diversion.

It’s unknown if it will arrive

 

My eyes search for a place to calm myself.

Armed with a book and a cup of blackness for company.

While the words weave and the plot thickens, I sip.

Warm coffee to comfort my heart. 

Tears that only fall long enough to wipe away

When I dream of memories too long passed.

 

Until I catch a glimpse of familiar.

A smile less than three feet away is before me

In the absence of my attention. 

Cream colored coffee 

That is nothing but the opposite of the blackness of mine.

A look that lasts longer than it should. 

I wish it were for me. 
When he looks away quick

I know it’s not. 

 

I wish I knew his habits yet I don’t.

Flick of the wrist. 

The moonlight between the trees shifts.

Slowly the fire burns white into red.

Smoke escapes his mouth.

Runs down to the floor. 

 

Like the smoke 

Common words drop from our mouths

Fall to the floor

Walk the room and return.

Coming and going.

Far enough. 

Few enough. 

Hardly any distance inbetween. 

 

Between our drinks there’s everything. 

No comfort in silence. 

Silence that seems to dance in the background

As the unspoken words linger 

On the tips of our tongues ready to be spoken.

A dance that only moves between speakers.

 

Strangers keeping company

Cold among the emptiness of the space.

Invisible arms wrap me up. 

Warmth and company. 

I couldn’t have asked for more. 

A feeling of belonging that is lost the moment

I leave him and walk out the door.

 

 

 

 

Throw

I know how a woman throws herself at a man, yet I don't know how to throw myself at a man. I won't claim to know how to even go about it without looking silly. If you want dating advice that's of the sex & the city variety... I don't have it. How I ended up with the guys I used to date or be involved with... It happened because I let it. Or maybe they knew how to take the lead? 

Flirty!? Moi? I really wouldn't say I am but I suppose I can be friendly. :) Although it is an effort to mingle with people. If you are seeing me out and about, I'm trying hard to be human. But once I warm up to you... It may seem as though I'm a different person entirely.

What about the writing? It's funny how much you can take & twist from personal experiences & relationships without truly revealing anything at all about yourself. :)

Here's a story about a gal who threw herself at men and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Do you pressure people into doing things they don't want to? Do you throw yourself at people? Or are you a flirt or just friendly?

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

PS: The new book is coming. I promised myself it wouldn't conflict with a very dear un-friend's epic release. So I'm thinking maybe late May or early June.

Didn’t

(4-6-2011)

Some girls will take no for answer.

Not this one.

Not this time.

“I didn’t have a choice,” is what he thought as he steadied the razor sharp shards of glass in his hand. The length of the puddle ran the length of his restless arm as it moved. Her head lay split wide open to reveal the slow thickness of blood spilling outward onto the Italian marble floor. The red on white tile was a startling contrast to his eyes. Trying to convince himself that there was no other way Victor pulled another shard from her lifeless body. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Over and over he kept thinking that there was something else he could have done. But there was no other way to do it because Carmen never gave anyone a choice.

When she wanted something she went after it full throttle.

Carmen Sandoval was the kind of girl you wanted to hang out with. She was pretty, tall, slender, big breasted and all the guys wanted to fuck her. And most of them probably did. Asking Carmen out meant one thing to everyone in the neighborhood and Victor knew it. That’s what made it hard to believe when he did it. Victor wasn’t the type of guy that followed when all the others did. But today Victor Vargas was the guy that got to hang out with her.

Victor Vargas was hardly a man with gumption. If Carmen hadn’t asked him for help with her flat tire in the middle of the parking lot at the grocer’s they might have never met. And if they had never met Victor was quite certain they never would have spent more than five minutes in the same room, let alone in the same company.

At least that’s what he thinks. In the back of his mind Victor wanders through the moments trying to piece together the puzzle of what happened before this moment where he’s standing over the bloody mess.  Like the missing parts of a dream he can barely recall the details of her before it happened.

The bare parts of her body look saintly in stillness. A purity that remains absent from the fragments of his memory that fall back together in his mind. With his eyes following the bloody line between her upper torso and lower hip bone Victor realizes that he warned her from the start. She didn’t heed his warning. Even though he was hardly to blame for what happened, somewhere in his mind he remembered giving a warning.

“I’m not a courageous man,” he told her when she invited him out. And he wasn’t. But Carmen didn’t listen to him when he said it. This was because women never listened to Victor. It was something he’d grown accustomed to over the years. Now Victor couldn’t say he didn’t mind because he did. He simply wanted to know about her when he accepted the invitation. And as she rambled on about sex and drugs he wanted her to know what he was about.

“Don’t expect me to do something that I’m not going to.” He interrupted her talking and talking with plans about what’s going to happen next. While walking to the house Carmen had it all worked out and Victor couldn't be in more disagreement when they reached the door.

“I didn’t mean to turn you on.”

 “Didn’t. So many things that you didn’t mean to do. Well it’s a shame now that it has to be this way. You’re staying for a drink.” She says.

“I’m going to go. It was fun. Maybe another…”

“Victor. I’m sorry. You don’t have to. Don’t. Stay.” she pleads.

But the words may as well be silent because he knew that nothing could change. Especially not with her.

He’d gone along with the evening despite knowing what Carmen was like. Victor kept hoping for a chance to know her. To see a change in her that showed a different side that never came. He knew what she was like when he took her home and in fact it was the one time when Victor was certain that NO meant no as she plead with him further. Good night was all he had in mind, but that was anything but what she wanted when she asked him to stay for a drink.

What she wanted happened in the kitchen next to the stove next to a drawer full of knives. It could have been the knives but it wasn’t and it happened faster than Victor had time to take it all in. Carmen opened a beer and reached for his hand. At least he thought it was his hand she wanted when the bottle dropped and  she quickly made her move for his pants. Victor didn’t have to do it but he did. He moved. A slight step to the right and she wasn’t paying attention when the base of her heel went out from under her in the liquid.

Back, back, back she fell into the golden pool of foamy wetness to meet her end.

As the color of red washed over her beautiful face, Victor wondered if there was more to Carmen than her oversexed libido. He suddenly wanted to know about her. And it was too late for all that when she stopped breathing. “I didn’t have a choice because you didn’t give me a chance.”  And with that Victor Vargas lay the sharp glass down gently with his sharp words before saying goodnight.  

Backflash

Backflash... Lately, I've been thinking about all the shows I've gotten to see over the years. Mostly because I'm trying to go see a photography show in the next week. If you know me pretty well then you know I've loved art, design, & music for a long time; Graffiti, Photography, Paintings, Sculpture, Tattoo and more. I used to hit up a lot of shows in my downtime which is hard now that I write, photograph and work a day job. With the poaching of my photo clientele/friends I haven't shot much but after wrapping up of a new book of stories and a new series of dresses sketched/painted/sculpted I now have time to adventure again. Yes I'm publishing another short ebook soon! I will tell you more in a later post! 

Here's a couple of shows I was able to see a few years back...

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Where oh where? 

5-3-2011

Where oh where could I find myself this week?

Sunday mornings are typically for brunches and discussion. After the morning chitter-chatter of Saturday Night’s events you’ll find yourself running into a person or two from the previous engagement between heading to meet up with the remaining usual characters for some mandatory window shopping before you finally end up visiting the family. However, this Sunday I found myself trekking down the state toward the lovely Los Angeles skyline to see… what else? Art. 

Two galleries in a matter of hours…

Art in the Streets. 

Graffiti in the Streets Gallery. LA. 2011.

Where can you find Keith Haring, Retna, Lee Quinones, Spike Jonze, Banksy, Shepard Fairey, in one place? At the MOCA. Primarily at The Geffen Contemporary at MOCA. Los Angeles’s version of the Modern Art museum is currently housing an exhibition that pays tribute for the rise of graffiti as an art form. This exhibition began its run April 17th and will continue until August 8th. I was informed that this is the first major historical exhibit encompassing street art and graffiti to be held in an American Museum. The focus here is on the origins of the style and how it has changed, evolved and merged with other cultures across the world over the course of time.

The exhibit is astounding and quite breathtaking to any admirer of the art in the street. Not only does the art demonstrate its significance in trends it shows how it has united itself in music, film, television, dance and culture. The overall exhibit remains a bit traditional in the sense of a museum. There are two floors that allow you to take in both the sheer scope of work on a ground level and an above deck level. Beneath the roof there are mock-ups from artists across the globe that chronicles the early beginnings of street art to the where it is now. Amid the visual encompassment of the street art you find yourself among film screenings, lectures, artist discussions related to the main event. 

Upon entrance you find yourself looking directly at two vehicles covered from hood to trunk in painted paraphernalia. They lay straight in the middle of the exhibit. Along corridors you have paintings, sketches, and murals telling the story of their world. There is more to the look by the art of the street and there is so much more to be told from it. The significant story that can be seen by these varying styles is UNITY. Rarely do we see a united cause across any culture except in art. 

Among the maze of rooms and hallways you find yourself immersed in sound as well as visual cues. Along a hallway a bank of mirrors are lined up with sprayed on messages. Upstairs photographic essays tell the tales of the earlier days of streets art. As art goers make their way through the maze of street arts best and brightest they are welcomed to a visual buffet. Some portions are complete homage to the street scene including alley ways, shop windows with complete interiors and replicas of vandals in action standing upon cars and ducking beneath trees. You can turn a corner to find yourself in a dark alley tagged complete with false front buildings, sleeping homeless man and flickering lights. Several artists came together to create scenes that are spread throughout the gallery. 

Banksy. LA. 2011.

One might ask of the draw or appeal to visit such an exhibition. For me it was simple, I’ve been a strong admirer of street art and graffiti for nearly a decade. Upon hearing that Banksy was a part of this exhibition it became clear that I must attend. Personally I’ve never come face to face with his work and had always wanted to. After missing a gallery in the UK two years ago I’d always pressed that I might someday make the endeavor to see his work in some capacity. The MOCA showing gave me the opportunity to do so. 

For others it almost seems educational if not mandatory that they visit a museum. Our perception of art is based in the knowledge that we have already created everything by traditional means and that is that. This idea seems restrictive. To embrace the beginnings of something new and undisciplined to our mind is to encourage our creative capacity to grow. It might seem biased to say that people neglect to realize how influenced our culture is by something such as graffiti. But they do. It is through our understanding of new art forms that will allow us to grow culturally as a combined people. 

If it’s not your cup of tea to look at the influence of street art on our culture, I encourage you to at least step into a museum to understand the origins of art. Art affects politics, music, dance, television, film and life in more ways than seem relevant to mention. Art is a reflection of the times we live in. 

Life is Not a Fairytale. 

Where can you enjoy a glass of Unicorn tears, play ping pong ala Man Who Fell to Earth with a spaceman, and get a glitter kiss blown to you from a girl trapped across the void of the photographic frame? At the gallery of celebrity photographer Tyler Shields.

Quite frankly, life isn’t a fairytale. And this is the last place you should expect to find one. But don't be surprised if you find so much more than that. 

Life is Not a Fairytale. Tyler Shields. LA. 2011.

The man behind the camera has garnered a reputation for the eccentric with his avant-garde work that borrows influence substantially from pop culture. Much like Willy Wonka opening the gates to his factory, Shields opened the doors on his work and made it public for one day, May 8th minus the need for golden tickets. And much to my own admission I was intrigued and equally excited when the announcement for a public gallery came up as I’ve been an admirer of Shields work for a few years now.

Like many photographers and artists, [among my favorites Avedon, Warhol, LaChapelle] the need to see the work up close is very necessary. You can visit the artist’s website at anytime, www.tylershields.com but to be honest that never comes close to what it’s like to look at the photography in person. However on this particular instance it happened to be more than simply photography on display. Videos, artwork, a bit of performance art, and a blood creation comprised the gallery. 

Entrance is greeted by a spaceman dancing through street along with his own space theme. Once inside you’re looking to the left at a cow in a stall mooing with words EAT ME painted on. Standing next door in another stall is a pile of bright yellow barrels painted with toxic waste symbols. Look head on and lift your eyes to find yourself staring at a giant teddy bear hanging and holding a whip while three lovely masked nudes look down from the wall. The sheer scope and size of the photograph murals are jaw dropping in person. Among the smaller pieces there are a dozen or more large mural sized pieces that fully grab your attention. And of course free with entry limited edition poster prints are handed out like a door prize that you might receive at the Fillmore West after a concert. An idea that is indeed very rockstar as opposed to photographer which speaks for itself.

The Blood Painting. Tyler Shields. LA. 2011.

Move a little more into the scene and you’re greeted by the Pièce de résistance: The Blood Painting. I’ve mentally realized that its a tribute to the artist' friends while watching the “making of” video. It’s truly a love letter to those who donated as it could not be created without their gift of blood. The donators look a bit squeamish as they are drained for art in the video but the piece is given life through their small sacrifice. Although I’m uncertain of the artist’s plans for the piece, it would be nice to see its proceeds go towards a charitable cause.

Should you find yourself thirsty while visiting the factory there are water dispensers complete with bottles of refreshments. One contains Unicorn tears and the other Vampire tears. Have a drink? Pick your poison. Although I doubt either is poison.

As you find yourself winding around the mayhem of imagery there is a ping pong table along with spaceman playing, a room of videos streaming and music that seems as though it never stops. The artist’s taste in music is demonstrated in his video portraits, which on display they run silently with the eeriness of an old film against a metallic wall. The videos are predominantly unreleased material weaved with the usual suspects. Anyone thinking they’ve seen it all. Think again. When you almost want it to end the reel keeps going. I spent in excess of 25 minutes waiting for it to restart. It did not. 

Shields photography is a cohesive collection that is uniformly spread in large across two rooms at the gallery. There are mostly individual pieces on display. The “never before seen” imagery rests alongside the general standards that Shields belts out on his website regularly. However there are a few collections that fit together nicely. Aside from the B/W masked nudes one includes a bizarre Batman, Superman, Catwoman threesome that looks like fun for some on a Saturday night. Another includes a vampire Lindsay Lohan complete with victim and fellow vampire Michael Trevino hanging on the wall above a red lined wooden coffin. Among the pieces that stand out for myself… Zachary Quinto being dragged through the dirt, Lyndsy Fonseca dancing amid a wind farm, the trio of B/W masked ladies (large), Stop Wasting Time (large) and of course Life is Not a Fairytale (large)…  just to name a few.

Overall Shields has created a world that steps beyond the ordinary in his first public gallery. None of which could be possible without the hard work the artist dedicates and the commitment of the people in his photos. A few pieces ask you to entertain the notion that the images can reach out and pull you in. And for the moment you do. You let them tell you their story while you stand in awe. One of my favorite quotes of Shields, “your imagination can only run wild if you let it” and in this instance I think that’s exactly what the artist has done to the best end result.

As an artist slash photographer Shields has definitely made his own mark in the visual world and will now continue to push the envelope with work in television and film. It will be impressive to see what comes next from Tyler Shields. 

My advice? Next time you find the factory open without a golden ticket, go and see for yourself. It won’t be a waste of time. And as long as you aren’t expecting to find a fairytale there you won’t be disappointed.

Needless to say LA was lovely and Sunday was a fun-fun day, in a manner of speaking. My eyebrows are raised thinking… Where oh where will I be next?

kisses.

 m.