fallen-rain:

misswallflower:

temporary tattoos by pepperink

temporary?? give me all!

GORGEOUS

(via beartzu)

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.

Thanks to my sparking Cara Alwill Leyba for the reminder. 
Just YES.

Thanks to my sparking Cara Alwill Leyba for the reminder.
Just YES.

My 3 Babies & First True Loves

My 3 Babies & First True Loves

Tori Amos - New Years day @ Cork Opera House 2014.by Adrian Steele (by adriansteeleo)

(Source: Spotify)

Almost five years ago I was happily raising my 11 month old Aila. She was a dream baby. She slept like a rock star, had already given up her bottle, walked early and was easy to tote around in her carrier. She was goofy and funny and weird and loved to dress up. She was the child I’d dreamed she’d be. I was reading the book ‘Nurture Shock’ which devotes a chapter making a case for the awesomeness and superiority of only children. Even though I had always thought I would have a billion, I smacked the book shut one August evening, one and done. Why mess with perfection? But this story isn’t about Aila or perfection.
The next day I woke up and knew. It was the vague wave of nausea when I drank my morning coffee. A creeping tiredness at the park while I sat with my girlfriend and we watched Aila and Sydney play. We decided to walk up to Starbucks for more coffee for me and tea for Pammy. “Maybe you’re pregnant?” She said. “Just because you’re pregnant, doesn’t mean you have to share the misery! I’m done. No more babies.” But that feeling nagged in my stomach and I ran into a 99 cent store because I wasn’t wasting money on a test to tell me I wasn’t knocked up! As Pam watched the children and I saw those two lines emerge on the Starbucks bathroom sink I stood there as Lichtenstein-esque pop art bubble tears spilled down my cheeks. No, not tears of joy. Tears of “What the fuck???”
I made peace with it. Aila would have a sister. They would share clothing and gossip and have each other’s backs. They would be built-in best friends forever. Dr. Herzog, my OB/GYN, was a joker and a heavy metal lover. As her did an air guitar solo to “Rooster” by Alice in Chains as my 20 week sonogram was printing my heart pounded, ‘Be a girl, be a girl, be a girl.” He often drew on the sonograms, I saw him drawing and began to worry. He handed me the black and white piece photographic evidence punctuated with a little drawn in hand giving the middle finger and the words “I’m a boy!!!” Cue cartoon tears….
I could details the miseries of being pregnant with a toddler but this story isn’t about me and my sciatica. I know it sounds scintillating, but this is about my boy.
I scheduled my C-section for May 4th (unbeknownst to me this would be a fortuitous day both International Star Wars Day and the day Hitler was born, oh great) so that I could spend as much time with Aila alone. I was feeling nostalgic in advance for our time together. But again, this isn’t about us.
I was scheduled to have my boy at 9 a.m. sharp, first appointment. This wasn’t my first rodeo, I wanted to have him early. I didn’t want any visitors. I wanted to be alone with him, skin to skin, nursing and bonding with my baby. That morning I woke up at 4:30 a.m. I wasn’t anxious, I had terrible gas pains. Or so I thought. They progressively got worse. “I think I’m in labor. I think I’m having contractions,” I said to my husband. I had never gone into labor with my first pregnancy. I never had non-medicated contractions. I had no idea if I was having them, having Braxton Hicks contractions or just really bad gas. So I went about my business of preparing Aila’s breakfast, my hospital bag and taking a nice, long shower.
As we dropped Aila off at Nana Geraldine’s house I said, “Mom, what do contractions feel like?” She shrugged, “Ahh, they’re not so bad. I don’t even remember.” I cried as I kissed Aila with thoughts of leaving her for three days, how she didn’t know what was really going on and the idea that I was never going to be able to give her all of me ever again. (All rookie mom crap, by the way. I’d never be as precious now.)
My doctor was like family by that point and came in and hugged me. He shook my husband’s hand. “Okay, are we ready?” I held up my arms with tubes and tape and said, “I am let’s do this!” He looked over at the bleeping machine. “Heather, you’re in active labor.” I looked over at the unintelligible tangle of erratic lines on the screen. They looked almost like an ancient premonition. “Aren’t you in pain?” My doctor asked me. “Sure, but I mean, I’ve felt worse,” I said. He looked back at the screen. “This boy is giving you a run for your money, Mommy, let’s see if I can get you in the OR faster.”
Cut to 6 hours later. I’m REALLY in labor. And REALLY in pain. If I didn’t have a crooked pelvis I’d have tried to pop him out of my Virginia but I wasn’t bothering with that and having him have some kind of demented head for the rest of his life. The doctors also said no, anyway, I asked thinking, “Hey, natural childbirth, I could give it another shot!” I’d kept being bumped for “emergency” C-sections and since I was just lying there in natural pain and not in active labor I was considered to be decidedly NOT an emergency. So I called my friends on the phone, walked around, ate (FTW!!!) and marveled at the ugliness of the hospital gown. Around 3ish my doctor came in and took me into the OR. The OR is a strange place. It has a whooshing sound, like an airplane and that sterile, cold air. I was shivering. The fear set in a bit. I could die. Aila would be motherless and this baby, too. Certainly he’d survive if I didn’t. When you’re about to be cut open you think weird things. The anesthesiologist was lovely and talked me through each step though I didn’t hear a word. I was starting to panic. As the spinal set in I felt the old familiar sensation of a full blown panic attack. I instinctively stuck my finger down my throat, trying to vomit, on the table, hooked up to the machine with the poor anesthesiologist begged me to calm down. I sputtered out, “I have panic disorder, I’m having a panic attack…” She quickly took action and put something in the IV that sent a wave of floaty, warm peace all over my body and I hadn’t noticed they’d already begun cutting until I smelled my burning flesh.
At 4:04 p.m. on May 4th, 2010 Finnegan Graham Mele was pulled from me, quiet and calm. He was beautiful. I am not a precious mother or woman. Most newborns are awful looking. Simply horrific. He was gorgeous and had a Buddha peacefulness that worried the nurses at first. But not me, I knew he was okay. I knew the second I saw him. He was my Finn. My Finnybear. MY BOY. My darling boy that I never knew I wanted or needed. The first boy on my side of the family since 1963. I fell madly in love with him. I insisted on having him immediately so we could lay skin to skin. I wanted his heartbeat to remember mine as long as possible. I wanted to nurse him. I wanted to be alone with him and shut the world out. His placid calm made me feel at peace with every ambivalent feeling I’d had, not just during the pregnancy, but maybe ever….
Of course he’s a boy so that has not lasted…Finn had been to the hospital multiple times by age 2, has had staples, stitches, bruises and a rad scar above his eyebrow. He’s a maniac, fearless, wild, a bit off his head, really. He is also sweet and gentle. “Mommy, are you okay? Are you happy?” He will ask. He hates to see others cry. He walks up to the meanest looking dog and kneels down and in a gentle voice says “Hi, puppy! Hi!” When his big sister gets off the school bus he jumps up and down and hugs EVERY SINGLE KID. He’s joyful in ways that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt except when I experience it through his eyes. A single “awesome” rock can rock his world. He’s stoked just to walk down the street and point out different colored flowers. He sings like an angel, he has perfect pitch and every time he sings he makes me cry. Right now he likes to sing “Royals” by Lorde and a bunch of songs I don’t know because he’s much cooler than I am by nature. He loves Legos and Minecraft and punching his sister and throwing her toys out the window. Then he will cry, feeling guilty and beg me to go get “…my sister’s toysssss, mommy, I so sorry!!!” Four years have flown by. Half of them with gritted teeth, half with mouth wide open in wonder that such a creature could elicit so many emotions in me. He is everything I never knew, infinite pools of love in his eyes when he looks at me, devotion like a monk. I will always be his first love. He will always be the love I never knew I needed, but has fortified me in way that I could never articulate. He is mine.

Almost five years ago I was happily raising my 11 month old Aila. She was a dream baby. She slept like a rock star, had already given up her bottle, walked early and was easy to tote around in her carrier. She was goofy and funny and weird and loved to dress up. She was the child I’d dreamed she’d be. I was reading the book ‘Nurture Shock’ which devotes a chapter making a case for the awesomeness and superiority of only children. Even though I had always thought I would have a billion, I smacked the book shut one August evening, one and done. Why mess with perfection? But this story isn’t about Aila or perfection.

The next day I woke up and knew. It was the vague wave of nausea when I drank my morning coffee. A creeping tiredness at the park while I sat with my girlfriend and we watched Aila and Sydney play. We decided to walk up to Starbucks for more coffee for me and tea for Pammy. “Maybe you’re pregnant?” She said. “Just because you’re pregnant, doesn’t mean you have to share the misery! I’m done. No more babies.” But that feeling nagged in my stomach and I ran into a 99 cent store because I wasn’t wasting money on a test to tell me I wasn’t knocked up! As Pam watched the children and I saw those two lines emerge on the Starbucks bathroom sink I stood there as Lichtenstein-esque pop art bubble tears spilled down my cheeks. No, not tears of joy. Tears of “What the fuck???”

I made peace with it. Aila would have a sister. They would share clothing and gossip and have each other’s backs. They would be built-in best friends forever. Dr. Herzog, my OB/GYN, was a joker and a heavy metal lover. As her did an air guitar solo to “Rooster” by Alice in Chains as my 20 week sonogram was printing my heart pounded, ‘Be a girl, be a girl, be a girl.” He often drew on the sonograms, I saw him drawing and began to worry. He handed me the black and white piece photographic evidence punctuated with a little drawn in hand giving the middle finger and the words “I’m a boy!!!” Cue cartoon tears….

I could details the miseries of being pregnant with a toddler but this story isn’t about me and my sciatica. I know it sounds scintillating, but this is about my boy.

I scheduled my C-section for May 4th (unbeknownst to me this would be a fortuitous day both International Star Wars Day and the day Hitler was born, oh great) so that I could spend as much time with Aila alone. I was feeling nostalgic in advance for our time together. But again, this isn’t about us.

I was scheduled to have my boy at 9 a.m. sharp, first appointment. This wasn’t my first rodeo, I wanted to have him early. I didn’t want any visitors. I wanted to be alone with him, skin to skin, nursing and bonding with my baby. That morning I woke up at 4:30 a.m. I wasn’t anxious, I had terrible gas pains. Or so I thought. They progressively got worse. “I think I’m in labor. I think I’m having contractions,” I said to my husband. I had never gone into labor with my first pregnancy. I never had non-medicated contractions. I had no idea if I was having them, having Braxton Hicks contractions or just really bad gas. So I went about my business of preparing Aila’s breakfast, my hospital bag and taking a nice, long shower.

As we dropped Aila off at Nana Geraldine’s house I said, “Mom, what do contractions feel like?” She shrugged, “Ahh, they’re not so bad. I don’t even remember.” I cried as I kissed Aila with thoughts of leaving her for three days, how she didn’t know what was really going on and the idea that I was never going to be able to give her all of me ever again. (All rookie mom crap, by the way. I’d never be as precious now.)

My doctor was like family by that point and came in and hugged me. He shook my husband’s hand. “Okay, are we ready?” I held up my arms with tubes and tape and said, “I am let’s do this!” He looked over at the bleeping machine. “Heather, you’re in active labor.” I looked over at the unintelligible tangle of erratic lines on the screen. They looked almost like an ancient premonition. “Aren’t you in pain?” My doctor asked me. “Sure, but I mean, I’ve felt worse,” I said. He looked back at the screen. “This boy is giving you a run for your money, Mommy, let’s see if I can get you in the OR faster.”

Cut to 6 hours later. I’m REALLY in labor. And REALLY in pain. If I didn’t have a crooked pelvis I’d have tried to pop him out of my Virginia but I wasn’t bothering with that and having him have some kind of demented head for the rest of his life. The doctors also said no, anyway, I asked thinking, “Hey, natural childbirth, I could give it another shot!” I’d kept being bumped for “emergency” C-sections and since I was just lying there in natural pain and not in active labor I was considered to be decidedly NOT an emergency. So I called my friends on the phone, walked around, ate (FTW!!!) and marveled at the ugliness of the hospital gown. Around 3ish my doctor came in and took me into the OR. The OR is a strange place. It has a whooshing sound, like an airplane and that sterile, cold air. I was shivering. The fear set in a bit. I could die. Aila would be motherless and this baby, too. Certainly he’d survive if I didn’t. When you’re about to be cut open you think weird things. The anesthesiologist was lovely and talked me through each step though I didn’t hear a word. I was starting to panic. As the spinal set in I felt the old familiar sensation of a full blown panic attack. I instinctively stuck my finger down my throat, trying to vomit, on the table, hooked up to the machine with the poor anesthesiologist begged me to calm down. I sputtered out, “I have panic disorder, I’m having a panic attack…” She quickly took action and put something in the IV that sent a wave of floaty, warm peace all over my body and I hadn’t noticed they’d already begun cutting until I smelled my burning flesh.

At 4:04 p.m. on May 4th, 2010 Finnegan Graham Mele was pulled from me, quiet and calm. He was beautiful. I am not a precious mother or woman. Most newborns are awful looking. Simply horrific. He was gorgeous and had a Buddha peacefulness that worried the nurses at first. But not me, I knew he was okay. I knew the second I saw him. He was my Finn. My Finnybear. MY BOY. My darling boy that I never knew I wanted or needed. The first boy on my side of the family since 1963. I fell madly in love with him. I insisted on having him immediately so we could lay skin to skin. I wanted his heartbeat to remember mine as long as possible. I wanted to nurse him. I wanted to be alone with him and shut the world out. His placid calm made me feel at peace with every ambivalent feeling I’d had, not just during the pregnancy, but maybe ever….

Of course he’s a boy so that has not lasted…Finn had been to the hospital multiple times by age 2, has had staples, stitches, bruises and a rad scar above his eyebrow. He’s a maniac, fearless, wild, a bit off his head, really. He is also sweet and gentle. “Mommy, are you okay? Are you happy?” He will ask. He hates to see others cry. He walks up to the meanest looking dog and kneels down and in a gentle voice says “Hi, puppy! Hi!” When his big sister gets off the school bus he jumps up and down and hugs EVERY SINGLE KID. He’s joyful in ways that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt except when I experience it through his eyes. A single “awesome” rock can rock his world. He’s stoked just to walk down the street and point out different colored flowers. He sings like an angel, he has perfect pitch and every time he sings he makes me cry. Right now he likes to sing “Royals” by Lorde and a bunch of songs I don’t know because he’s much cooler than I am by nature. He loves Legos and Minecraft and punching his sister and throwing her toys out the window. Then he will cry, feeling guilty and beg me to go get “…my sister’s toysssss, mommy, I so sorry!!!” Four years have flown by. Half of them with gritted teeth, half with mouth wide open in wonder that such a creature could elicit so many emotions in me. He is everything I never knew, infinite pools of love in his eyes when he looks at me, devotion like a monk. I will always be his first love. He will always be the love I never knew I needed, but has fortified me in way that I could never articulate. He is mine.

Mommy’s feet, Size 7, Age 39
Finny’s feet, Size 10.5, Age 4

Mommy’s feet, Size 7, Age 39

Finny’s feet, Size 10.5, Age 4

My little sister knows me too well. As a lil’ pre-Mother’s Day gift she got me Elizabeth and James’ Nirvana Black fragrance which might just replace my beloved Fresh Cannabis Santal as my signature scent for a while (I won’t ever be able to quit that Cannabis, man).
This fragrance is EXACTLY what I would create if I had my way in the laboratory: the top note of violet dries down to a deliciously earthy and potent Sandalwood tempered with vanilla. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’ not for girly girls. It’s not for girls who wear Dior or Burberry or other pedestrian fragrances. No, this is a unique fragrance and requires a certain type of woman to carry it.
I have to say, those Olson twins, say what you like…they sure can create a damn fine fragrance that is complex, elegant, luxurious and sexy.
For more delicate gals there’s Nirvana white with a peony top note which I need to get a whiff of, they are my favorite flower, after all.
Thanks, little sister! xo

My little sister knows me too well. As a lil’ pre-Mother’s Day gift she got me Elizabeth and James’ Nirvana Black fragrance which might just replace my beloved Fresh Cannabis Santal as my signature scent for a while (I won’t ever be able to quit that Cannabis, man).

This fragrance is EXACTLY what I would create if I had my way in the laboratory: the top note of violet dries down to a deliciously earthy and potent Sandalwood tempered with vanilla. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’ not for girly girls. It’s not for girls who wear Dior or Burberry or other pedestrian fragrances. No, this is a unique fragrance and requires a certain type of woman to carry it.

I have to say, those Olson twins, say what you like…they sure can create a damn fine fragrance that is complex, elegant, luxurious and sexy.

For more delicate gals there’s Nirvana white with a peony top note which I need to get a whiff of, they are my favorite flower, after all.

Thanks, little sister! xo

Bitty Ballerinas #dancelife #cutiepies #besties (at The Brooklyn Dance Centers II & III)

Bitty Ballerinas #dancelife #cutiepies #besties (at The Brooklyn Dance Centers II & III)

http://www.youtube.com/attribution_link?a=A7oq3DQf6rg&u=/watch?v=x4CzqrPZtXk&feature=share

I’ll tell you what: no matter how repellent one finds Perry Farrell (I do) or dismayed by his spiral into mediocrity (I am) or old it makes me feel to even be discussing this 20 plus years after it’s release (it does)…there isn’t ONE GIRL I know who doesn’t wish that “Classic Girl” was written about her. Or that your fella could write an homage that even comes close to this tribute to the timelessly beautiful and brilliant Casey Niccoli.

Did we not ALL want to be her in 1991? I sure did.

"Dinosaurs on the quilt I wore
With a girl.
Such a classic girl…
Such a classic girl…
Such a classic girl,

Gives her man great ideas.
Hears you tell your friends,
Hey man, listen to my great idea!
It’s true I am a villain
When you fall ill,
that’s probably because

Men never can be.
Not like a girl.
A classic girl…
Such a classic girl… “

And it’s true. Any man I know who creates beauty, art, words, photographs, houses, hot rods, sculptures, any old thing worth anything: he does it for a girl. Only a “classic girl” could inspire such things in a man.

Now, I could be batshit bonkers and bamboozled by romantic notions of the power of a transcendent, spiritual and soul connection. I like it this way. I’ve no other way to survive except to believe such things possible.

(Source: Spotify)

Portrait of Mommy by my Finny, age almost 4 in less than a week.

Portrait of Mommy by my Finny, age almost 4 in less than a week.

Life of Savage


By Vijay Seshadri, 2014 Pulitzer Prize Winner for Poetry
 
I’ve been excited about him as an individual.
I’ve met him as a person, emerging from his own shadow.
Indeed it is remarkable.
Indeed it is to be remarked of my friend Savage that
the desolation of hopes not merely deferred
but by impracticability brutalized
little marred his genial spirit.
How such a one, so circumstanced by parentage—
the mother crippled by disappointment; the father by rotgut and Percodan—
as to blight his prospects, and blacken with untimely frost the buds
of those ambitions justly excited
by manifest powers, graces, and propensities,
should nonetheless display
discrimination not inferior to those we deem wise,
sympathy judicious and above reproach,
is cause for a wonder neither cynicism can besmirch nor incredulity subvert.
In and out of juvie, jacking cars at fifteen,
snorting lines of Adderall, his nostrils stained blue,
kicked out, taken back, kicked out,
busted, paroled, busted again,
straining to reach the shiny object fallen through the grate,
tantalizing, just beyond his fingers,
finding and losing God,
thinking as he rakes the leaves of the linden tree
outside the sublet bungalow
that eating, sleeping, dying are what it’s all about,
nothing else, maybe a few sunsets,
forget about sex.




It’s still National Poetry month, I’m trying!
Vijay was not born here, but resides in the Carroll Gardens section of Broooklyn, New York. So he’s a Brooklyn poet. (Can you tell I’m avoiding Whitman or saving him for last?)

Life of Savage

By Vijay Seshadri, 2014 Pulitzer Prize Winner for Poetry
 
I’ve been excited about him as an individual.
I’ve met him as a person, emerging from his own shadow.
Indeed it is remarkable.
Indeed it is to be remarked of my friend Savage that
the desolation of hopes not merely deferred
but by impracticability brutalized
little marred his genial spirit.
How such a one, so circumstanced by parentage—
the mother crippled by disappointment; the father by rotgut and Percodan—
as to blight his prospects, and blacken with untimely frost the buds
of those ambitions justly excited
by manifest powers, graces, and propensities,
should nonetheless display
discrimination not inferior to those we deem wise,
sympathy judicious and above reproach,
is cause for a wonder neither cynicism can besmirch nor incredulity subvert.
In and out of juvie, jacking cars at fifteen,
snorting lines of Adderall, his nostrils stained blue,
kicked out, taken back, kicked out,
busted, paroled, busted again,
straining to reach the shiny object fallen through the grate,
tantalizing, just beyond his fingers,
finding and losing God,
thinking as he rakes the leaves of the linden tree
outside the sublet bungalow
that eating, sleeping, dying are what it’s all about,
nothing else, maybe a few sunsets,
forget about sex.
It’s still National Poetry month, I’m trying!
Vijay was not born here, but resides in the Carroll Gardens section of Broooklyn, New York. So he’s a Brooklyn poet. (Can you tell I’m avoiding Whitman or saving him for last?)