SALE SALE SALE

Just in time for the holidays!

MOVING TO MEXICO SALE

Check out The Loft if you are looking to add some art to your life or walls.  

Use my special blog coupon code to get half off your entire order! 

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(coupon valid until I get across the border)

out with the old

Word on the street says there's a new band in town offering a righteous new sound.

Click on zombie Bjork to get a dose of the New Pleasure that everyone's lining up for... 

Juicy Art

For some reason this juice company decided that art is important.  La Fundación Jumex now has more than 2,000 works of art and focuses on sharing its expansive and diverse collection with both the Mexican and international public.  Rightly so, for it is often the masses, turned muses, that inspire the modern masterpiece.

Why Mexico?

When I wake up in the morning 

and this is what I see from my window,

from my roof... 

the question doesn't merit a response.

bs

Bar Soap and I have never exactly seen eye-to-eye.

His feeble bubbles, aided by accomplice Washcloth, never quite seem to work up to the lather commonly pushed on television commercials. 

Even when set up with Sponge, and the bath runneth over with suds, there is one dingy memory from childhood that, for me, stains Bar Soap’s reputation…

As a child I was sent to summer camp on top of Lookout Mountain in Alabama.  The lush rhododendron’s essence clung to the morning mist and dew that hung heavy around us; we sat on soggy fallen trees and peered out across Little River into the fog.  As we awoke with song and reverence to the surrounding beauty, the director told us that there were problems with the plumbing. We would be bathing in the river until further notice.

We were no longer asleep. Yay! Hunger pains were swept away and breakfast was forgotten. Bath time was not to be hassled with fear of spiders nor the hesitation before braving the icy low-pressure trickle from the showerhead. Not today!  The river was to be converted into a natural bathing spot just as it was used by Native Americans long before.  I deeply felt that in doing this we were honoring and communing with the previous peoples of the land. 

Though we all donned bathing gear and our suds could be seen along the bank for days, I felt as pure and connected to the Earth as I ever had before.  But then, an older girl came and asked me if I had any liquid soap she could use. No. I had been borrowing the bars from others or merely using the suds that flowed past me as I swam against the current.  The look of disgust that froze her face and the words that flew viciously out of her mouth seemed to personify irony.  “Bar soap is dirty.” I listened as carefully as I could to her explanation of germs, her knowledge surely distorted from some other older girl, I became horrified by the little solid scum breeder.  Thus began a habit of washing the soap before using it.

I have no qualms, though, with sharing a toothbrush.

oil in Florida

all see in faith

It must have been the storm that woke me, but until I kicked off my flip flops and the wet sand gave way beneath my feet I didn't know it had even rained.

Even before dawn, the thought was waiting for me as I arose from a dream.  I was cocooned warm beneath the blankets of my mother's bed. Only after I had changed and ridden my bicycle across town, only as I descended the stairs and looked upon eternity did I realize I was awake.  

I had heard whisperings in town about the immense ships scouring the surface of the Gulf in the night. Be sure not to tell the tourists. And there, at the thirteenth hour, were two barges in a suspicious rendezvous, their orange, electric light the only indicator of the horizon. Their fabricated watts were notably less ethereal than the clouds which slowly boiled over one another in a tumultuous purple-black. It was impossible, aside from the vessels, to distinguish the ocean from the heavens and the desire to both duck and leap battled in my being. I gave in to each alternately, to be fair.

As the sun rose, the tops of the clouds appeared as tip of icebergs foretelling the magnificence that would grow downward into the shadows of the darkest cerulean sky. My skin glowed a white gray and, as I dropped my head backwards to take it all in, I held my breath knowing I must be under water. I kept spinning around and around as I tried to keep it all in my eyes. I tried to be completely present, consciously present, and then chastised myself for not being able to see the entire sky at once.
The light of the morning appeared over the rooftops formed into beams and rays aiming high as if the sun were hidden behind stage props, so blinding that the clouds as performers seemed to radiate their own spark instead of reflecting that of the source.
As the clandestine ships sailed away from one another trying to appear nonchalant, I could hardly make out their glow in the haze of the milky colors that early morning brings. 

Less alive, I awoke for the day.