Wednesday, June 25, 2008

New boyfriend.

I have a new boyfriend and his name is Jessica Alba, my bicycle.

Also, at running the risk of sounding severely Mennonite, I am pretty psyched on my first cousin James' return from Chinoise. He is back in full effect; going off in Chinese pant suits and Mandarin. Welcome home James. BBQ's and bicycles and clean cameras and interesting photography and no handed skid stops and rooftops and mesh. I will be okay.

Fine, FM.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Pinstripe and paisley.

Two mismatched mattresses lay stacked in defeat at the foot of the dumpster outside of my kitchen window. One is yellow with green and mauve pinstripes and the other is beige with a brown paisley overlay. It is a funny picture, really. On one hand, the imagery is terribly depressing just knowing someone used to sleep upon them with satisfaction. But yet there they lay in the rain that falls in curtains, decidedly cast to the wayside thanks to a few unruly springs in the ribs, a lump here, a dip there, a stain that will not wipe out for anything, a corner of frayed piping, and the concave burrow that is expanding at a mysterious rate. On the other hand, they look surprisingly inviting and beguiling almost, even though I should know better.

Just looking out the window, my hands are on the verge of unfolding from their position of calm, rising to tap out another sentence, slowing, lifting two inches above the keys with fingers still bent in familiar form and readiness, stopping, hemming and hawing with hesitation, wiping the hair from my face with determination, closing the computer, pushing bodily weight against the chrome ridge of the kitchen table, sliding back down to a resting place near my thighs, bending and cupping the air naturally as my body rises upright, moving back up to straighten my shirt, patting the creases from my jeans, wiping the table out of habit, pushing in the chair, brusquely taking the keys from the hook on the wall, grazing the floor to pick up the fallen articles from the key hook, opening the door, clicking the lock, sliding the keys into my breast pocket, swinging in time with the stride of my legs, jerking with each drop of a step, pushing open the exterior door, pausing midair to rest my rain streaked face in their familiar darkness, swiping away rain for nothing, buttoning a button, nervously picking at unseen lint while the rest of my body tries to catch up with my brain. They are so close to picking up those mattresses, dragging them out of the rain, and giving them to someone who won't notice the spring in the rib, or those stains, or the frayed piping. Someone who won't need convincing that they are lovely, that they need to be loved.

My hands always seem to know what to do first in times of crisis or triumph. Right now they are typing. I wish they were wrapped around someone's sleeping form instead. I promise will leave the mattresses be for now, dejected and alone; but I can't help looking at them with softness in my heart. The rain rains on and so do my eyes.















post script: this photo is dedicated to all the Myspace tripping teens out there who just LOOOOOOOVE their unoriginal mirror self portraits. I am an ugly weeper, it is no secret. I have laughed heartily at this photo since it was taken last night. (And yes, I am wearing a backwards hat). Enjoy.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Gone with the wind.

I just got home from my first Spin class. Sambeth was there, that was a treat. I have never grunted that much in front of a class of perfect strangers before. It was satisfying. It is funny, before this class (at Moksha) I thought I knew intense exercise as a long distance runner and semi new cyclist, but NO way José. That was mental.

Lauren Swan took the first photo a few weeks ago after a group breakfast/bike rally at Don Deli. I am psyched on it and thought it was 'Queens' worthy. The second photo is of Lauren herself, who is a pretty amazing lady. Third comes Katie Kidder. The solid name suits her solid personality and ability to apply red lipstick. Fourth is a photograph taken of Yosh, a connoisseur of the Right On. Fifth is a shot of my friend Taylor's waist. Lastly is a photograph of my mother taken in the country at the dining room table of my childhood. She is so beautiful, I am glad she is my mother.

I am currently listening to Bonnie 'Prince Billy and am in awe. "I am the king of infinite space". There is a bowl of poverty noodles/hamburger/last of anything edible in my home, in my lap and a smile on my face. Spin class, you got me beat!

"Papa taught me 'oft and long", Madge.











Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Jessica 'Don't Call me Latino' Alba.

She's heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere! Jessica Alba weighing in at 19 pounds, 11 ounces is my new whip, ride, pride and joy, love, piece of furniture, work of art, conversation piece, confidante, extension of body, friend, crush, dream, speed demon, bicycle. Swoon, sigh (in this case, a good exhalation). You know that back wheel I referenced a few posts back? Yeah, it is pictured at long last. I have a good feeling about you and I, Jessica Alba.

Wait, I must give credit where credit is due. My friend Korakan spent many moons searching for parts, explaining the mechanics behind the fixed gear, defining bicycle definitions, answering scoff-worthy questions, teaching me to build and true a wheel, rethreading the bottom bracket at the shop, taking it all apart, putting it all together, tuning, tuning, tuning, test riding, more tuning, more truing (after I buggered it up), among a million other things I am regrettably unaware of. Above all that, he never once treated me like a dummy when I had no idea how insane it was to be in possession of an NJS approved track cog or original paint, Mavic rims, a wheelset that turns heads from miles away, a mixte lady frame, Bianchi hubs and God knows what else. Thank you is never enough. But for what it is worth, thank you Old K.

Now how on God's green earth did I come to choose the name Jessica Alba you wonder? Miele is the make of the frame. It just so happens that in Italian 'miele' translates to Honey in english. According to Richard Bars, 'alba' means White on the Botany front. Here is the messiest correlation I have made to date: Temperamental/terrible actress Jessica Alba happens to star in the film "Honey" (miele) and coincidentally has a funny aversion to her Latino roots even though she is in fact as Latino as it gets (thus the white frame and the surname usage, yada yada). Whoa, that was an unnecessary paragraph.

I don't care. Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Introducing Jessica Alba, my brilliant new bicycle.













I think I am in love, finally.
Meg.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Hot water, tight shirts.

Alas I am home now, plaid clad and surprisingly inspired to paint after a very long hiatus. The aforementioned Southwest sauce has been cleaned from my ten digits and mint tea has been steeped to a potency that will hopefully cure my ailing stomach (damn you Subway and your delicious Cold cut Trio sandwich). Sitting at my computer in my bedroom of my modest home, the only thing I can hear is Z-lister hip hop artist (if I can call him that) Chingy and his terrible single "Right Thurrr" reverberating upwards through the hardwood beneath me. On top of that noise, there are about one hundred girls chirping amicably over the deafening music. Unfortunately in this case, gravity is no deterrent thanks to the ear-splitting volume Chingy is being played at. Oh my word, just when I thought life couldn't get any worse, Chingy stopped and Ludacris took over. I suppose I should not complain, my neighbors above and below continually put up with Joanna Newsom (who sounds something akin to Shirley Temple on violet drugs haphazardly playing a harp) and Neutral Milk Hotel (who sound like a musical group Sylvia Plath might have thrown on whilst she roasted her own head in the oven) on vinyl. Lucky for them, my record player's needle has been worn down to a useless nub. I am without and left wanting on so many levels.

My friend Kristin 'Mess' Burton came into the store today to help pass a couple of hours alongside me. We ate Subway in unison, laughed on the floor, talked about the Babysitter's Club and agreed after looking at a few hundred pictures on the internet that we will never be 'one of those' pretty girls you see walking in clumps around eleven in the morning in teetering and unnecessary heels with the hot-rollered hair, manicured nails, and Earl's boobs. Not to say that we are heinous ladies, nor are manicured and big chested ladies consistently uneducated. To make sweeping comparisons is not the motive of today's post, but thanks to the annoying tenants below, I am reminded of my discouragement due to the way my acquaintances regard their own bodies. This is tricky subject matter; I don't want to ruffle any feathers but I do feel the need to voice this seeing as the 'Body Image' topic has been rearing it's head in conversation more often than not of late. I have nothing against looking pretty, but I have a few qualms with pretty dumb girls. (Spring Break a la Cancun 1997 is still going strong downstairs and an Abba sing-along just took OVER the airwaves). Jill and I were corresponding back and forth the other day about beauty and self confidence. She made a good point when she wrote that she feels the most confident when she "is strong and healthy" both in body and mind. I think there is plenty of truth in those words. It is important to feel strong, to be able to carry weight that the world hands you whether that be literally or metaphorically. Maybe I just have blinders on or am too critical of those cookie cutter girls who fit perfectly into the "pretty and dumb" category. Too judgmental, yes. Blinders, maybe. (I am sorry, but it is too easy to be critical after eight hours straight of listening to mindless conversation and cleaning up one million discarded barstar shirts and lamé tights off the floors of change rooms).

I am losing my grip on articulacy here, I best be off on this topic. More later, perhaps. If this is upsetting to anyone, feel free to comment. While this might sound pretentious, I think I am simply on the hunt for people as hungry for individuality and creativity as myself. Unfortunately both of those seem to be unattainable in this city thanks to the daily 'fashion blogs', A Apparel costumed teens and boozy/bourgeois dance spots that are mushrooming at an ephemeral rate lately. Just be comfortable; I just want to be comfortable in my own skin, in my own clothes and home, on the dance floor or in the kitchen, in my underwear in front of girls with alien body types from my own. That is it, that is all. I want to be comfortable and strong.

Let us see, let us see. I am off to paint and try desperately hard not to be dumb. Thank god I have little boobs; maybe people won't jump to conclusions upon tight shirt inspection as quick as I do.

Oh boy, hello Pussycat Dolls performing live from the basement.
Hot water, Madge.

*Disclaimer: I know plenty of intelligent big-busted women, just sayin'.

Part 1. Precarious

Thankfully, the relentless rain is keeping any unwanted gaggles of customers at bay and I am writing with a single hand while the other continues to force feed the last six inches of Subway's finest trio of Cold Cuts down the hatch. Southwest sauce is everywhere and I am not complaining. Janique of Redbull came into my workplace, F/Q, this morning bearing gifts of energy drinks. Two down, fifteen to go; oh boy.

In between steaming silks and Windexing anything and everything at the shop, I have been scoping the internet for art project inspiration. Mission accomplished. Below is a myriad representation of my findings. I am currently obsessed with illustrator/writer Maira Kalman (whose work dominates in the space below). Enjoy.

New photos will be up shortly.
Blessings.

MF.