In some cases, talking to animals is better.

There's no particular interest.

Mi profesor de poesías de la universidad le escribió un poema a su hermano muerto en su último libro acerca de lo que ellos eran dueños: sus recuerdos. Listaba cosas como las carcajadas que nos dimos en la calle, ebrias de alegría, mi hermana Gaby y yo, mientras un vecino caminaba a su perro a las 3 de la mañana enfrente de mi apartamento. O esas conversaciones en la cocina de nuestra casa en Venezuela comiendo empanadas frías las tres, y espantándonos a las 12 a.m. "por si venía un muerto". Uno en la vida no es dueño de nada, pero sí de esas cosas. 

Hoy caminando a la casa pensé, si no soy dueña de nada, me basta con este atardecer rosa, como esos delfines saltando de noche en el mar de Cumaná. Cuando escribí de ellos en la universidad, criticaron mi poema por "improbable",  nadie creía que existiera esa criatura. Pero Gaby y yo los vimos y son nuestros, de nadie más. Así como estas nubes hoy, por debajo de las que todos trotan, sin mirar hacia arriba y tal vez si les cuento, tampoco me crean.

Sometimes, when I'm too lost to write the good words, taking in another's is just better.

Spring isn't passing by me this time. Each year I grow more aware of this season which before was nothing except the middle man to summer. But a magnolia tree across the street allows me --very briefly-- to swoon and sigh over pink blossoms... although there hasn't been any rain around this parts, life is blooming.

I held my sister's newborn baby girl just a few days ago. She was warm with new blood, a fresh full bed of black hair and the quiet peace of the undiscovered. She is a doll my hands were deadly afraid to touch.

My other niece and nephews were born in Venezuela, and seeing them only through photographs, however majestic, just reminded me I was not a part of the big moment: conquering my fear to hold them in arms too big and clumsy and say hello for the first time ever.

Driving to the hospital, I thought about my first words to baby Sophie. What should I say to her? "Hello. Welcome. I love you." Everything sounded so common there were no words worth saying. As I walked into the room and saw her tightly wrapped in a swaddling blanket like a Matryoshka doll, beaming light from her cheeks, I forgot my plan to say anything at all.

Rupande, the Indian warrior princess, was suddenly a mom and there she was, totally beautiful after the most treacherous work a woman could possibly do. More visitors arrived eager to greet this wee being and we gushed together. Yet nothing trumped the silence of everyone completely at ease looking at Sophie Rotu sleeping. Just like a brand new blossom on the tree across the street, there was nothing to do with her grace but stare.

"Whirl, whirl, whirl! Holy! Days are flying and I've not written! I've not recorded the worthy happenings!"

This is exactly what I wrote in my journal tonight when I found myself alone in my apartment with my thoughts and something rare these days at 11 p.m... energy. My last journal entry is from January 24... horrible... although many other journals are being written on at once --good luck to anyone ever trying to piece my life together-- that is no real excuse.

So, Happy 2012 to those of you who bump into this blog, it is late but honestly I've been a slow one to catch up to the new numbers.  December, where did you go?

I didn't write about finally getting to spend New Year's Eve the Venezuelan way with my niece, nephew, sister and husband in Canada... It was the loveliest of times. Without any previous knowledge, we decided to cook the original Venezuelan meal, which is elaborate as it gets, and turned fingerlickin' good (according to all meat eaters). I continued to be weak for my niece, no news there, and I'm so glad to not be responsible for her discipline.

 

***

All is a blur, there's been death and a lingering feeling of uncertainty rearing its head more than usual.  There's been the days to be thankful for and beauty flying so fast I might have miss it if I stopped to write. I've been choosing to record life taking photos and use them as a map to remind me of the feeling. Open water, open heart...

In Miami for work, this artist made me fall in love with his work and grounded me a little. Maybe one day one of his wires can move in with me. I think life finds a way to put you back in place, even when blooming late, it is always the right time.

There's the family we're born into and then the one we find elsewhere.

***

May you be shining in the grand luminosity, you lovely woman! 

May you feel times 100 all the love you gave on this earth.

May you rest your warrior soul.

Soy fruta a punto de caerme del árbol.

Soy águila en descenso por su presa.

Soy ojos abriéndose por primera vez a la luz...

con miles de preguntas, adelanto sin pensar en las minas

Soy un cavernícola aventurándose fuera de la cueva.

Soy lobo esperando mi luna llena.

What November was made for...

Just like in October, another unforgettable show helped ring in this month. SBTRKT, was a sweaty and messy dance frenzy, the kind that lifts the soul by shaking away anything stale that was sitting in the corners.

 I used to sneer at pictures of shoes or feet. I don't particularly find feet gracious or beautiful but for some reason this fall I've been obsessed with snapping the ground covered in leaves... and that one day I walked around in heeled oxfords all over the city for an entire day, which is a feat in my book. 

***

Work took me to Las Vegas, and I got to share duties with one of my favorite editors who lives away. Our sleep deprivation from endless days and nights drove us to silly-picture-time.

It is moments like this when I feel my life is totally ridiculous and over the top... and I thank the heavens for it. When I went to shoot this show my dad kept popping in my brain, it felt wrong to be there without him, to experience it without the person who I hold responsible for making me love music, and not any music... the great stuff. However, despite the time difference between Vegas and Venezuela, I messaged him a trillion times clips of Santana's solos and a few pictures from my phone. He was so happy.

Going to bed in Las Vegas looked like this everyday. It was all work and no play, but the sunrise from a 61st floor was enough of a gift. On 11.11.11 I stared out of the window --in the fluffiest of bathrobes!-- prayed for clarity, and gave thanks before collapsing for a quick pre-flight nap.

***

Madison Square Garden is not my favorite venue but it looks so lovely when is full of music lovers, this time Foo Fighters was to blame for the overjoyed hands.

***

Making my co-worker squeal with cheap gifts during her birthday was a highlight. I love giving people things for the selfish reason of seeing this expression.

***

 

My college buddy Adelina took a long bus ride to spend the weekend with us. We ate, ate, ate and walked, walked walked, but mostly, laughed at things you can only laugh about with people you have history with.

Joel joined us in the city parade and we took Adelina to see Rockefeller Center. I love that everyone is always cold but this man can manage to walk around in a hoodie like it ain't no thing.

Old friends that get along with new(ish) friends is the best thing in the world to me. I snapped Yayi and Adelina at Lincoln Center, right before our visitor decided to pose like a tigress on the fountain... that's a private collection.

Bergdorf Goodman's detailed work was another pit stop on her tour du NYC. Mannequins freak me out but this picture is one of my favorites right now.

It was difficult capturing Central Park at night during our walk but the 'whiskery' feel of this tree does the trick for me. That night we saw a couple get engaged... He kneeled, she said yes in the dark... it was nice and private until we cheered from a distance for them, taking away the class but adding a good anecdote --we hope.

 During a visit to one of the markets in Brooklyn we all fell in love with skull bracelets and Adelina gifted us each a piece, mine is made of wood but I went back and bought a silver one, too. The beaded beauty happened to be from the '70s and it had me at "12 bucks."

***

  

Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania is always a good time. My nephews are all getting older and pile up on 'Uncle Bad Joel' often and too quickly for a good picture to be snatched. This one is my miracle shot of the month. I love that they all look a tad wacky-eyed.

One Thanksgiving-bummer was having a sick kitty. Injured Bella had to travel with us so we could give her antibiotics for an infection on a 'vamp stamp' she got in a fight. Despite it all, she was a total champ about being in a car for 6 hours and adjusted to her temporary home immediately.

Breakfast at my favorite omelet joint in the entire world. My father-in-law doesn't like this place so much but every time we go visit he suggests it... because of us.

***

Twinkle, twinkle city lights! The skyline has looked different every day this week.

Hello December!

What autumn was made for (this year)

 

An unforgettable show

 

Depiero's trip for apple cider donuts & the most ridiculous ghost faces

 

Bella, but of course! I envy her year-round autumn coat

 

Indulging in a self-portrait

 

Sushi dates with my bestie

 

Perusing sidewalk book sales

 A new book to curl up with. Woo!

 Confused seasons

Sugar Skulls!!

An Umber Dove calendar

Halloween!

Antes de venir a ver a mis sobrinos, me pregunté por un minuto si al verme reconocerían en mí a su tía. La preocupación fue innecesaria.

Pre-Irene: Mama nature has her moment.

Ya lo extraño... Bella también.

Durante una caminata veraniega al supermercado
los ví,
pérdidos dentro de los corotos que ella no quería
allí estaban,
e.e. Cummings y W.B Yeats por tán solo un dólar

En estas últimas semanas me he acostado con los dos
e.e. hablandome de muerte,
                        árboles brotando de mis ojos a la hora de partir.
Ya en la oscuridad, los cierro
             sintiéndome una ladrona.

¿Cómo pagarles por la verdad?
¿Por recordarme que no tengo que esperar? 

para dejar brotar los árboles de mí
y alzar mi corazón con las caricias del mar.

el original ------

¿Por qué escribo?

Frecuentemente como persona que le gusta escribir, me pregunto cuál es el punto de hacerlo, compartirlo con la gente que uno quiere o ponerlo en un blog al que puede llegar gente sin mucha dificultad. Como reportero, es posible justificar la actividad, tengo que informar de una cierta noticia sin compartir nada de mí persona, simplemente cuento los hechos. Si se trata de una crítica allí me siento como un personaje analizando algo, pero no necesariamente soy "yo," pues al final siempre me digo "¿quién soy yo para criticar el trabajo esta persona?"

Entonces... ¿porque compartir escrituras y observaciones que considero como mías, más no precisamente únicas? Como escribió Bob Dylan en su canción "One Too Many Mornings," "everything I’m saying you can say it just as good," algo así como lo que yo digo lo puede decir cualquiera.

Este fin de semana, cuando me tocó cubrir la muerte de Facundo Cabral, no tuve mucho tiempo de reaccionar como yo, si no como el editor contratado que necesita hacer las cosas rápidamente para informar al público. Pero al momento del respiro presente y escuchando las palabras imposiblemente ciertas (y con las que me siento muy identificada) de "No Soy De Aquí," se me vino la bendita pregunta pero más fuerte se me vino la respuesta contundente, "por esto es que hay que escribir." Si Facundo Cabral se hubiese dejado llevar por dudas y miedos, todo este material de verdades irrefutables que nos regaló no estuviesen a nuestro alcance. Que horrible tragedia hubiese sido nunca haber leído ésto:

"Hasta que el pueblo las canta,
las coplas, coplas no son,
y cuando las canta el pueblo
ya nadie sabe el autor.

Procura tú que tus coplas
vayan al pueblo a parar,
que al volcar el corazón
en el alma popular,
lo que se pierde de gloria,
se gana de eternidad."

Gracias Facundo, por darme la respuesta a la pregunta ese día, tal vez mañana dude otra vez, pero aquí estará este escrito para recordarmelo nuevamente. Descansa en paz, no tengo duda de que lo estas haciendo.

Dear, Pacific Northwest...

I've been crushing on the beauty of the Pacific Northwest for over a year after reading incessantly about it from Umber Dove and Candace --and looking at their swoon-worthy photographs of pine and evergreenery fed my current urbanite soul on good and bad days. When a work assignment came up to cover their infamous music festival Sasquatch, I really tried to contain my excitement and take it easy because if anything were to happen to get in the way of this dream work trip, a little heartbreak would have occurred.  If it was meant to be, it would be... and it was. 

On May 26, two airplane rides after, I finally hit the road towards the Gorge with my coworker and when I saw we were entering North Bend, I squealed, without much care about what he would think.  My joy, it was uncontrollable. Trying to describe the beauty of this place seems an impossible task, because part of the magic is its ever-changing essence. One minute it rained the lightest, tiniest drops and the fog covered the mountaintops only leaving a teasing bit of snow in sight...

 

The next, the sun would shine bright and unveil a complete rainbow with the most engorged clouds hanging around it. Surprised clapping really happened when the rainbow came out, "this is too much, now you're showing off," I said to whomever handles nature.

When I mention to people we had to stay in a motel because it was the closest thing to the festival, they make a face, but really, I smirk because they must have never seen a motel with this view. A few steps from my door was the Columbia river and on a small exploratory walk the birds sang to me.

"Let me keep the calmness in this water, the happiness of these birds and the strength of the mountains," became my tiny prayer.

 Sing, sing, sing... Time here seemed nonexistent.

On my last morning there, after pulling an all-nighter writing recaps about seeing my favorite music in the most amazing venue in the world, I took a walk at 5 a.m. in the back woods from my humble motel room. The wind was making its own music swinging the trees into melodic rhythm, the birds squeaked, fluttered, swooped wildly... at home.

In the meantime, I repeated:

"Take this with you, take it into your heart."

"Take this with you, take it into your heart."

"Take this with you, take it into your heart."