Ole!

More bling to buy at the loft so hop to it!

Don't let Mari Carmen get the goods
without you getting your chance...

For those of you in my vicinity: good news!

A show is in the works... details coming soon...

Almost Heaven

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

This song has the same effect on me as when I am annoyed by people whom I love most in this world.
The whistling gets real old real fast. The words ring too true. The memories trailing along with the melody are bittersweet.
My jaw clenches and a pressure develops where my Adam's apple would be if I were a boy. However, with the release of that first breath I feel a sting in my eyes, fuzz in my nasal cavity and the tightening of my heart.
I love it.
Two of my very best friends moved out to West Virginia at the beginning of December to work as ski instructors. It didn't matter that they had never skied before.
So, we went.  
Food and music: we were prepared. After driving through the night, nothing but the sunrise tinted with colors of salmon, cantaloupe and glacier water could give caliber to that drive into the peaks.
When I arrived, the house swallowed me in an unforeseen comfort. Finally with my friends, we were us once again.
They owned that town and could already ski down that hill. Backwards... while wrangling niños.  
Also, they now know what radiators are. Life stops when you stop learning.
Only after spending my quarters on the juke box and my dollars on drinks did I borrow another friend's skis to zip down the bunny slope just to say that I did. That was enough. The rest of the weekend went by without a pause; we spent our limited time causing scenes and reveling in each other's familiarity.

The mountains were as majestic as our nation's anthems proclaim them to be and I was thrown back to the time of my grandmother's stories about kin folk and moonshine stills. The train tracks and plaid jackets strengthened the nostalgia that had, for me, permeated the tone of the trip from the genesis. 

Alas, the tune escapes through my pursed lips and so it will be that the customer's will carry it through the cafe doors and out to the world. 
Home.

Leopard-Skinned Headaches

Concert t-shirts and hidden tracks on singles... a couple of comforts after a night of elaborated enjoyment in the big city.

So many want to make it big.  It would be nice, I think... if there was a little more anonymity to the whole gig.  I love to perform, no doubt.  Some of my favorite times were had while zipping back and forth behind the curtain... out of the shadows of backstage and into the warmth of the stage lights that conveniently make each audience member a victim of face-snatchers.  

The satisfaction in preparing and learning a skill, developing it into a hobby and gladly losing control of it as you realize that it is you. 

Art... and I speak here of art as a general idea of creation...  seems to me to be most thoroughly fulfilled and completed when shared with others.  The creator, guitarist, painter, cannot view the final product without some form of emotional or critical attachment and therefore, I believe, better understands his work when witnessed by another.  The creator, in a sense, needs that verification to fully grasp the reality of having produced something beautiful... or painful... or funny. 

Last night, The Jug Huggers and Lawndart Casualty played at Exit/In and it is always exciting to see friends realizing their aspirations.  Fun show... great bands... and a couple of knights in a shiny red van to carry me away.  I don't work on Sundays.

My Pet: Peeve

I am most annoyed when the shortcomings that I have appear in others... 

How can someone not remember to flick the turn signal off once in the left lane on the interstate? There is no turning left unless... no. No turning left. Duh. (Usually I notice later... when I didn't earlier because my music was too loud to hear the clicking.)

Know what you are going to order... know what you order so you don't complain later when you get something that is different than the way you imagine it in your head. (I am always the last to order... then ask for more time... and substitutions.)

Mainly, in my line of work, this conundrum applies to coffee... espresso... cappuccino... whatever... it's all the same. Right?

Most people have no idea what they want... except they don't want what you suggest.  They order something they heard someone else say at Starbucks with expectations of satisfaction... then get miffed about spending $4.00 on a too strong or too sweet or too caffeinated coffee drink.  They will continue to order anything that gets them through the line, yet continue to be unhappy with their choice, rather than educate themselves or ask about what the incoherent terminology actually means.  
(I find this to be true when you ask people what kind of eggs they prefer, too.  Most people say scrambled... I like to believe it is primarily because that the preferred preparation at Shoney's and continental breakfast bars nation wide.)

I work at typical, unique, like-all-the-others, hipster coffeeshop in a typical, conservative, small town.  We play safe, quirky, background music that sounds cutting edge for the Twittered soccermoms that just dropped the kiddos off at the private, religious, K-12 compound across the street.  

Rarely does one know what the hell she wants to drink.  Latte, cappuccino, espresso, breve... no one really seems to understand which is which... nor do they care to admit their inclarity.  On top of their unbeknownst obtuseness, the very act of deciding which sugar-based sauce with which to flavor their identity... and quiet possibly a flavor as foreign and confusing as mocha... is daunting.  I now plea the fifth when asked So what is good?   My suggestions tend to cause bitter beer face.
Before I continue, I must point out that I prefer black coffee. Good. Black coffee.  Otherwise, I take two shots of espresso with full fat foam on top sprinkled with cinnamon.  Strong.  Rich. Not in a paper cup nor with a lid. 
It takes me back to Spain. I take what I can get.


The best, good, black coffee that I have had in this small town has come from Dunkin Donuts.  I love it.
I found this great mug at Goodwill that appears to have been from DD's first marketing launch... marble edition... art design: Michaelangelo.  I like to imagine its delicate handle gripped by the thick, worn first and middle fingers of a trucker.  Loved.  The stains suggest high traffic and a needy java junkie.

So... back to complaining.  People just don't get how to order their caffeine.  Dunkin Donuts... to plug the rival to my employer even more...is trying to... subtly... educate their drinkers:

Alright. Allow me to explain... 

Next to my bellybutton-muffin top mug you see a recyclable, cardboard cup-hugger.  It displays the difference between a latte and a cappuccino.  Literally, latte means milk... in Italian.  Cappuccino means capped... it comes from the Italian friars with their cute little haircuts. (Think: Friar Tuck in from Disney's Robin Hood.) So... a latte is espresso, another difficult concept to conquer, with steamed milk; a cappuccino is espresso and steamed milk capped with foam.

Mocha only means chocolate... nothing else. In Italian.  So, order a mocha cappuccino with caramel and french vanilla but don't tell me you didn't say chocolate and don't ask for more steamed milk because the cup is only half full of fuzz.

I can't stand answering stupid questions
This is my worst trait by far.  Though no question is stupid, and I ask stupid ones constantly, I am impatient and can be a bit biting, short, judgmental, rude...  in my responses.
I am awful when it comes to looking for... and locating... anything.  Food in the fridge moves on its own and entire neighborhoods tend to evade my sight.  When driving... as soon as I do, finally, arrive at my destination... how I managed to get there is erased and I have to figure my way back out of the mess.  
I ask where the carving tools are nearly every time I step into Hobby Lobby.  
So, despite this acknowledged hitch that I have, I get unnecessarily frustrated with people asking stupid questions. Especially when I work at the kiosk in the lobby of the Bone and Joint clinic.  Next to Where is Doctor ________'s office? I hate to hear Where is the bathroom? Through those doors with 10" tall letters that spell RESTROOMS. See them? Yeah... that way. I get way more tense about that question than is healthy.  But really, the sign is one of the few in that room... and there is very little to look at, anyway.  Besides me and some stringy tropical-esque plants: to the right, we have the elevators that take you to the only other floor in the building... to the left, next to the coffee and pastry kiosk, the eye doctors' commune... and directly in front of you, a pair of automatic doors labeled RESTROOMS, SURGERY CENTER and PHYSICAL THERAPY.
I got mine, though... and quite rightly... not long, actually, after I had admitted... out loud and to myself ... that I need to work on my anger at answering this easy question.  What else do I do there, at the kiosk? Cut crapes and make fudge.  Do I know the answer to the question?  Yes.  Am I saving my breath for later when it may be more important?  No... I almost never bite my tongue.  
So... I resolved, long before the new year, to just answer.  Get over myself and be helpful.  
I didn't.
I was tested and failed and deserved it all:
A woman, who I had seen earlier shuffling across the lobby to her appointment with one of the optometrists, approached me and, her gaze in the general direction of the delicacies, asked if there were restrooms nearby.
Actually, yes...  Through those doors? It says RESTROOMS, you see?
No, actually... I don't.
Blind.  That, I deserved.
She was kind, and probably more forgiving than I have been on myself.  
I still get a little snooty sometimes, to be honest... but I do answer.  It is the least I can do... unfortunately.    

BluBlockers

So, my brother says I don't have a face for them and I feel safer if I peek out from under the rims as I go through intersections... but, man, do I love my BluBlockers.

I think I accrued my first pair from my little brother but the relationship was not to be and had terminated by Mule Day.
I hadn't been to Mule Day in five years... the last one had a horrendous outcome and so only losing my shades was actually a triumph of sorts.

The pair that currently conceals my peepers came to me honestly and they have brightened my days in many aspects.
Through my eyes, 2010 is as vague and abstract as the concept of world peace.  I am now thrown back into my reveries of the seventies... I was there, you know. The tint of the lenses, orange, turns time back almost as effectively as my wagon's clock.  The world appears to have been reupholstered in swaths of mustard, off-white and bow-hunter orange trimmed in dark, lacquered woodgrain.  A Polaroid rediscovered in the attic; it had been waiting for this moment... to remind of simpler technology and revolutionary music.

My uncle wraps our gifts in art.
Collages, riddles and magnets twirl and slide around our presents and always cause concern when the time comes to opening them.  Some of the best ones come with an old photo long discarded by anyone who could serve jury duty for the subject.  My brother and I proudly display them on our refrigerators and attempt to pass them off as kin.  They do look like worthwhile folk and have been the topic of many late-night conversations.
My uncle and his creations are major sources of inspiration for my art.

H2O

Did you know that it costs less to give a person water for twenty years than to buy a soccer ball?

The airlines are strict these days and due to baggage restrictions my brothers and I decided to give donations in my grandparents' names for Christmas. Not wanting to be gender-partial, it being the holidays and all, I chose something for a boy, a girl and one that could be for either... though I suppose the soccer ball could be for a girl as well. Water and a year's worth of education for a girl seemed fitting; there was something for diversion, for education and for health. I was inspired by a fireside chat that Mama, Papa and I had recently had about the Wonders of the World: Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, Brian Williams...

I don't mean to go around and toot my own horn or anything... I just want to call attention to this fascinating detail: 20 dollars buys an individual enough water for 20 years.  Twenty years...

I know it must mean it purchases the necessary equipment to purify and prepare the water... but that is a long time.  The kid's soccer ball was thirty...

Really it just seemed like such an insignificant sum... it won't even fill my gas tank... that I was taken aback.

I know what twenty bucks can do for my life... if you have some to spare, won't you help to change someone else's?

title

Title ... what a word with which to quarrel...

It seems as though a maliciousness towards title has been brewing in my being for quite some time now.

I believe it first began while I was in Portugal.

I had taken an overnight bus from Madrid with my friend for a holiday weekend.  We arrived just after dawn and should have realized our folly when, before even locating the exit, Katie's wallet, ahem... and passport, was stolen.

Sticky fingers know no bounds... and US embassies in foreign countries are not as welcoming to their citizens as they claim to be in the travel books.  (Know how to say, "I was robbed" in the local dialect.)  So, Lisbon was without earthquakes and  Porto was cozy.  That may have been one of my favorite CouchSurfing experiences... delicious homemade risotto and a comfy, crawl-space attic with a palate to dream upon.

The metro ride to the airport, however, was laced with failure; I could sense it. My previous run-in with behemoth Berlin law enforcement, on my maiden CS voyage, had me on alert. I knew we had to be extra careful when interpreting the poorly translated self-help ticket booth:

Round trip or One way? One way... we were headed back home to Spain...

Line A, B, C? Whichever one led to the airport... that was the final destination... leaving on plane... 

How many titles? ...

We weren't really sure what that meant... titles? We discussed it in the little time we could with a line behind us and the train approaching the platform... Two.  There are two of us... it already knows we are headed, once, to the airport. Title could mean Dr. or Mr. or Miss... right? Surely... but the ticket monitors don't always come through your train.  We would probably get there and not even have to deal with the situation... probably...

As soon as we boarded I just knew it would be our luck that the ticket taker-uppers would come through.  They take such pride in dashing people's hopes of arriving to their destination on time... just because they get to wear a uniform.  They did. And we were mistaken.  We tried to explain, understanding that it was our task to provide evidence... in some places being a US citizen comes with the burden of providing reasonable assurance.  Guilty until proven innocent...

It took him, and his cronies, getting off at the next stop, going through the steps of the Portugenglish computer with us and, finally, asking him what, he believed, was meant by title.

Ha! Clearly it means trips, girls!

Why then, sir, would it ask if we wanted a round trip?

Well that is... In Portuguese... No... Well... Just buy another ticket because you both have to have one... and get back on the train... 

The most pressing of my conflicts with title is the one which is presented daily... with searching smiles and inquiring eyes.  "What are you doing now?" "What will you do next?" "Oh, but I thought you were a teacher!"  Well, I was...
And maybe I will be again... but no, I'm not now.  And I'm not anything... unless you want to take a look at my resume... my CV... my artist statement.  All of which list my accomplishments and titles; pedigree is announced and success is assumed, expected, commonplace... yes, but what next...

I do want to thank Momma for inspiring the title of this blog. One less thing for me to have to invent...
A long, long time ago... in a town not far from yours...
Mom saw stark white letters screaming an urgent message from an anonymous origin...
So we took pictures and posed in front of it... and I think it is now covered up.
I have carried this framed photo with me around the world.  It was the only one I took to Spain...

Really what set this rant off was a simple question that awaits me at the top of each blog entry... I wanted to simply announce that I have set up an online store through Etsy which I have titled The Loft.

I guess I am so vexed by this feat because I, myself, am one of those that does judge a book by it's cover... and title.

today's resolution

The third day of the year merits a goal... "no cookies or junk food" was eliminated from the list in my head only moments after the new year began... though no one else knew of my failure.  You see, by omitting the verbal statement part of the resolution, I find the lack of will power to abstain from or adhere to a new regimen less depressing. Without an utterance, without being whispered, the contract is less binding.  But, I do need mile-markers to start me off on the right foot...

This year I will accomplish something... or at least attempt to do so.
Kind of like a resolution... I suppose a shower or a book read could fall into the category of "something".

And because today I woke up feeling motivated... the desire to feel accomplished led me to the fire place.

I spent the majority of my holidays lounging in the glow of the flames, lolling around the living room with my cats and grandparents.  Sleep seeped over my eyes as I reread the same line in various books over and over; the floor as much as the couch served as my dozing zone.

Today I tackled... or rather toyed with... Etsy.  Some samplings of my peddlings:

www.etsy.com/shop/crose22

Not black and white

 but shadow and light

Whistler, Kanevsky, Kiefer, Goya and Caravaggio