Poignant Blurs

Creativity Works

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Location: Florida, United States

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Define Edgy

I used the word the other day, which I don't usually, and I thought a good exercise would be to define it:

Different in a good way.
Pushing the limits.
A good chance at being "the new".
Potentially awesome.
Marketable; in a market by itself.
The kind of thing only the right person/behavior can pull off without getting totally hung out to dry.
The zone every creative person wants to find.

Thursday, June 16, 2005


They say that music tames the wild beast, but I have seen it enrage the tamed. I think that when they look back on my generation they will see that we had a penchant for "anger music". For a generation dubbed "apathetic" that tells you a thing or two. Think about how we were, teens pre-9/11, not able to conceptualize the strange state of the world. As a friend once said, "tamed, but not taken". I remember being at concerts, the mosh pits, the violence. It was something we needed, an outlet.

Music tames (or enrages) the beast because it speaks to the beast. Music captures that rare dynamic, as all art does, but music does it in some profoundly different way, an interactive way.

For example, after reading a particularly moving book, it would be inappropriate to go smashing about your house or neighborhood, displaying those deep feelings, wouldn't it? Same with a particularly moving painting. But music, music is raw. Music is action. At a concert, you may walk away with a black eye like it's a souvenier. You may hug a stranger. You just don't know.

Music is physically expressive. It can be profoundly sexual. It can be intoxicating.

I once auditioned for a show VH1 had planned to run (but never did) on music lovers. Asked to define what music meant to me I was stumped. "It's the soundtrack to my life" I answered. "One song can bring me back ten years, or transport me forward, or carry me through". I couldn't see how anyone could answer the question any differently.

Mosh Pits will be a thing of my generation, and I like that. Mosh Pits have a dynamic, and back when, there used to be an etiquette to it. A joint sharing of pain with the unspoken agreement to back off if one person got overwhelmed. These days I see more violence in them, but I think it's a statement almost, of how tamed and stilted we feel. Of how much NEEDS to get out.

These days everything is a media sensation. You'd wonder how it's possible there was anything left to say. but the more we are talked at, the more we want to plug our ears and close our eyes and the more we need to say what we want to say.

Everyone just wants to be heard.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005


Settled in, stretching out, like liquid I settle into the old mold, filling up the old familiar places.
There is a beauty and simplicity to "home". Home can be anywhere, it is really just a feeling you carry with you, and for me that feeling is strongest here, for now.
I was stretched out, balled up, grumpy and hot when I left Florida. Now I'm languid, soft, tense but not so unsmiling. Of course it's still fucking hot.
Old friends, old pain, parents, so much is the same, and so much is, forever changed.
I'm not hurting, at the moment, which is nice. The sand had begun to burn my feet in paradise. Here the asphalt is cool beneath my sneakers and the eyes are not so cruel and the suburban ghetto warriors seem sweet and engaging, (compared to the derelicts of Eden).
I'm looking forward once again, and I'm in my element. These people might not be stars but they are MY people and this place is OURS.
There is something shared here which was never captured in the transient flow and I don't know what to call it but it's better, that I know.
Everything and one I love is here, and it hurts because I feel it, so, close, and I want to be perfect all the time, but it's better than hating everyone and wanting just to hide.
So yeah, I'm glad to be home and there's no place like home and home is where the heart is and my heart is here; you know?

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


Helter Skelter; Willy Nilly: Thoughts that these imply;
Turn it over, wear it out, keep on asking why.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Burden of Paradise

Sometimes, you set out on a dream, thinking you are wide awake. You know the feeling, perhaps it was even a bathroom dream a time or two. Certainly you've awaken knowing quite sure that you had gotten up, showered and gotten dressed, and yet, here you are, rumpled sweaty, quarter past nine.

Maybe that's what this is.

I'm afraid that's what it's going to feel like, when I wake up at home again.

Some things I won't miss:

The crudest, rudest, excuses for boy-men I've ever encountered. I've always been "one of the guys", but come on, ewwwww.

"Where's your Louis Vuitton? And you're breasts, so natural, so passe! Come koko!"

"See ma'am, I got it real hard see, see people don't understand see, I got a problem see. I'm a good man see. You got a dollar ma'am, please, just a dollar?"

"Eu quero beija todo seu corpo"

"Oh, girl! Would you look at the package on him!" (from my 40 year old MALE co-worker)

MY JOB: No, I'm sorry, I can't help you. Nope. No. Nothing I can do. Nope. Yes this is what you pay me for.



(I realize of course these aren't all privy to South FLA. But here-they are in ABUNDANCE)

Some things I will miss:


Walking alone to the store at 2 am for a bottle of wine or some ciggarettes if I feel like it.

Making friends at the store at 2am and going out for the night.


Walking everywhere

THE BEACH-anytime. Wanna go to dinner?- Let's go the beach!!!!!!!

My Hungarian friend-Adrian.

My lovely Tori.

My little Costa Rican-Alberto.

My DREAM (feels good as long as you're still asleep-doesn't it?)

Wednesday, April 06, 2005


I always thought that America was the most beautiful idea in the world. What it stands for, the foundations it was built upon, the great men who used reason and intellect to overcome the tyranny that darkens most if not all of history. "The land of the free and the home of the brave". Where are those men now, and what is being done to their legacy?
After 9/11 I had to stop watching the news, in fact I had to stop watching TV. It sickened me, watching it, seeing our pitiful reaction. I am proud to be an American, and I still love our country, but she is like a desperately ill sister, and sometimes, I just can't watch.
The illness that creeps through her body is dementia, a chemical imbalance inherited from generations of mysticism and brutality. Carried like a recessive gene through the years, she has grown weary even of herself. She has delusions alternately of grandeur and of despair. She is caught in a bipolar spin out. She is raving of gods and worshipping every form of life but her own. She raises her children in a culture of death and they shoot guns in protest at the life that was taken from them before it could begin. She wants to medicate them all, as she has sedated herself. I think if she would just wake up, just take one good long look in the mirror, and stop running so fast from everything that is good in her, she would see how beautiful and worthy she is, and she would be free again. I know she'll get better, she'll come around, because this sort of madness can't go on forever.
There are still great men and women, and they are gaining stregnth and courage, but they are the few, and the far between. It is they who are the mirror, who reflect the beauty, and who must guide her to the truth again.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


Easter is the memory;then and now. Easter in spring and church on Sunday; a farmhouse, a white hat. A Billiards room downstairs, an organ in the anteroom. Morning. I used to paint your toenails. You always had plenty of TastyKakes on hand. The Butterscotch Krimpets were your favorite. After the heart attack you switched to Snackwells, you lost your lap, moved to an apartment. You loved treats, always like a little girl, and we would stay up late and talk. Your bed was so high it took a step stool to get into. It was so soft. You had a driveway that was a mile long, behind a gate, up a hill. We rode our power wheels on it. You had a carport that went DOWN so steep. It always scared me. The spiral stairs down to the Billiards room were steep too. They also scared me. I loved that farm. I loved you. I'm glad you're going back home. Still, Gone is a bad word.