fromthemouthofmoi

First you have to jump in the family car about ten minutes behind schedule, race down River Side Drive so anxious you believe you might throw up. Then you double check everything making sure everything is there: money, glasses and birth certificate, (the last item comes later).. You pull off The Drive at the appropriate exit only to start in on St. Anthony, promising him anything in exchange for one measly parking space within four and a half blocks of the theatre (picky Catholics?) You find one, thank old St. Anthony and you lock up the VW bus. You walk half a block and I scream: We forgot your glasses! At this moment, if you are older than eighteen you mentally say: Oh Shit! (Remember time is running out and you haven't hit the bodega for goodies yet). If you are under eighteen, me, you pray the movie hasn't started yet and that you'll have time to get goodies and that you'll make it to the bathroom real soon. You retrieve the glasses, re-lock the door and run to th...

Listening to music in a language or culture other than your own is like watching a film with subtitles; you either love it or you don't. I am trying to think of analogy for why we might not like different sounds found in music. Is it as simple as: we like what we like or is it more complicated than this? I recently listened to a podcast, Here's The Thing, with Alec Baldwin interviewing Paul Simon. Simon was researching the work of a man named Harry Partch who according to Simon realized that on a traditional music scale there were sounds (notes) that were often not heard or used in composition and that there were a wealth of other sounds to be heard and used. When I heard this I had a Eureka moment because living here in Mexico I often perceive Mexicans singers as singer 'off key'. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Mexican singers where hearing or using a different scale that my ears were unaccustomed to. We understand this when we listen to traditional Chinese ...

Nothing bad or sordid can be said about Mike. He was the most gentle and kindest of men, inspiring my life in a multiple of ways. I loved him and was in love with him because he understood me. He whistled in the morning as he made breakfast for whomever was in his home at the moment. His whistling was clear, strong and always cheerful. I write that I was in love with him but he was also peers and had been friends with my parents, and thus, nothing ever transpired between us. Everyone thought we were intimate including his ex-wife but we never were. I was old-fashioned and Mike understood this quality about me. When his kids wanted to go out club hopping I preferred to stay at home with him watching old classic films. He would laugh at me when we watched films together because invariably I would notice a lamp or something else as trivial in the background of a scene and he would laugh and say: This is the best scene in the film and you focus on the lamp! He knew all of the old movie ...

(L-R Craig Horton , Tom Boyd, unknown, Tano Ro , Sam Myers , Big Bob Deance .  Milano, Italy, October 6th, 1981. Photo rights to Tano Ro). Dear Daddy, Each year that passes since your death I've learned increasingly more about you as a man. Not as my father, but as a man, and I am coming to understand that you were one pretty wonderful dude. I recently received a letter from a man in Norway, Jan Erik Moe, who wrote to tell me of your influential impact upon his formative years and how much you meant to him. The letter was quite heartwarming, uplifting, inspiring and for me, a little bit sad. Jan had two memories of you that I share. He mentioned all the postcards he received from you over the years that had been written by hand, that I am sure where written with your Mont Blanc pen. That pen was a permanent fixture in your breast pocket and I have the fondest memories of your penmanship. It was beautiful; the blue black ink flowing freely and smoothly from the end o...

When I went to Bide-A-Wee to adopt a cat, a place I had adopted from before, I picked out a large orange cat that looked to be about two years old. I went into the petting room to see if he was the cat for me and when we got into the room he spent most of his time exploring and very little time brushing against me. He was a beautiful cat and I decided to adopt him. When I went to the counter to pay the fee and fill out paperwork, the worker, without hesitation, said: I don't think you want this cat. The statement struck me as funny because I was at an adoption facility that was there solely to recycle animals to new owners. She removed a paper from the cats' file and reading from it, she said: This cat has been here for two years and has been adopted and returned three times. When I asked her why she said: Previous owners claimed that he meowed too much, scratched in the litter box excessively, wouldn't get off the bed and when you tried to get him off the bed he would atta...

I have not had many lovers in my life. What is it that another person does that conveys love to me. Can I only feel love in one way? Has each of these lovers conveyed love to me in the same way? Did I show love in the same way or does each love present a new challenge of love to be taken? None of my lovers have any shared similarities except they were all artists of some kind. They have not had a similar look, nor a similar income. They have not been the same race nor have they shared physical attributes. And none of them have conveyed their love to me in the same way. Each of my relationships has had a moment in time when I knew I was loved; when I've felt loved. I knew P for possibly four years before we became intimate. We were traveling on a bus from San Francisco headed to Ashland, Oregon. It was winter and I was 17. P and I are both from New York though we did not meet there. I was with him because he had heard I was in a marriage that I didn't wish to be in and out o...

You have a quality that I could feed from With seemingly little effort you pet me and I slow I feel like Miss Havisham. I wonder where Dickens found her? I feel stuck in time with a mouldy mind Wandering my house in the wee hours thinking I smell smoke I am barely here I am losing time I've lost time I flop into bed exhausted and Miss Havisham nags me until dawn The wailing has begun. It's raining in my head Years ago I cried so much I became dehydrated I don't know where I am in this cycle I don't know where I am in the week, or in my house If I could I would place you in a rocking chair by my bed I would make sure you had a window to watch the gloaming from I might ask you to read to me. I can't listen right now But the sound of your voice will wrap me in fur I will drift to sleep with eyes wide shut and I will owe this to you In all this dreariness please Accept my love