18 July 2008

Hunter S. Thompson

His beat, he once said was "the death of the American dream." --Washington Post

No wonder he shot himself in the head. Today would have been the great gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson's 69th birthday. I first read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when I was about 13 or 14 years old. If you know me, this isn't surprising, given my father's occupation, loves, and habits. Thompson's writing, his truth, his documentation. Nothing like it. Nothing like it at all. But for all his love and experimentation and reverence for states altered, the power of writing, he said, beats all. "I haven't found a drug yet that can get you anywhere near as high as a sitting at a desk writing, trying to imagine a story no matter how bizarre it is, [or] going out and getting into the weirdness of reality and doing a little time on the Proud Highway," he once said. Long live this fire, this fervor, this razor's edge. Most of today's journalists can only dream of writing the truth you lived. Happy birthday, Hunter. I hope you're in a better place.

17 July 2008

The Panty Project by Erin Bennett




Shameless leonine self-promotion here. I never got to see the photo of me in my silver stars panties until just yesterday. This last photo is among a series taken by an old friend I don't keep in good touch with, but hold fondly in my heart. This image is a held-still moment of beauty in the beginning of what was to bring forth some of the darkest years of my life. I want to hold this beauty close. Erin's backyard in Candler park. The cool of the grass. The joy of attention, of focus, of Erin's watchful, wonder-filled eye. The photo above is of another good friend, and the one before it is an Erin self-portrait. Erin finally had her show at the awesome Youngblood Gallery, run by Maggie and Kelly, after I left town. This woman is an incredibly talented imaginative artist with a pure heart, fueled by beauty instead of ego. Check out her full gallery, and send her encouragement to go out and conquer the world. Do the same with the women at Youngblood. I think, in part, this post is an attempt to reach back at the good in those dark days. Divide up my wrongs, and, as Virginia Woolf said, to know them, and to put them away.

16 July 2008

Heartbreaking Genius



That I've hitherto completely missed. If you're with me, check out this amazing MC, J-Live. You're Welcome.

IndigoBlueOrangeMagicSummerNights



Florida summer nights are magical. So's the little town I live in. Palm trees line the streets. Spanish architechture silhouettes against indigo blue. And sunsets are long, and pink, ever fading back into that indigo. The moon is waxing, I think, and it's bright. Rain threatens perpetually, keeping the air thick, stirring up breezes, pushing the Atlantic ocean's waves back and forth. Monday night I found a beautiful new-to-me marsh with a friend. Fiddler crabs scuttling from our steps, the pier's wood old, worn, salty, and the green so green, the sky so lush in the golden summer hours of early evening. Then the rain came later, almost silently. I looked into the streetlight, and the water fell in an almost static sort of rythm. These are pictures from my beautiful world, in my beautiful, quiet little town, where I hear frogs and cicadas at night. Where white cranes and storks fly overhead. Where everything. Is everything.

Writing Below Sea Level


The St. Augustine Project. Hosted by Writing Below Sea Level , gorgeous writer Connie May Fowler's love/dream child, this venture was incredibly important and impactful and exhausting and wonderful. 8 days of morning manuscript critiques, afternoon lunches with writing community pros, and soul-baring studio sessions of reading our work aloud--raw, soul bearing, filled with tears, with laughter, with inspiration. I can't believe it really happened. Connie May is so generous, kind, open, and solid. She is delightful. Dorothy Allison is wonderfully powerful, and funny, and kind. She says "honey," a lot, which is endlessly charming. These women both wrote novels, incredible works of art that live inside me still. And I learned, by spending time with them, that art is not really a choice. You stifle it. Or you let it flow. Only then are you free. I've been woefully out of touch with all the women I experienced this conference with. It's like resting up after an intense, short-lived love affair. So much was there. So much remains. I hold the love these women hold for their art and for themselves close to mine, like a bluebird singing.

15 July 2008

Think Love


"When You Think of Others, Think Love. When You Think of Yourself, Think Love."



This gorgeous print was Made By Girl.


Think love.