Well...we can hope...

Alright President Obama. You're finally addressing the campaign promises that I hoped and believed in you for. You've made some really shotty decisions since you've been in office. Please follow through with these promises...

http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/06/29/obama.gay.pride/index.html

To my darling niece, Camilla.

I woke up Saturday morning (June 27th) an aunt for the first time. My brother Josh and his lovely wife Paula welcomed Camilla Calliope Eva-Marie Frances Jerusalem Jubilee Gibbs to the world at 4:54am. She weighed an impressive 8 lbs 5 oz and is, in my completely objective opinion, the most beautiful baby that has ever been born.

I'm ridiculously excited to be an aunt, and am bound and determined to be, "the fun one."

This is the inscription in the card I'm mailing to Camilla and her parents tomorrow morning...personal, yeah, but I feel like it sums up my view on life , so I thought I'd share it...:)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To my niece, Ms. Camilla Calliope Eva-Marie Frances Jerusalem Jubilee ~

A few pieces of advice from your adoring Aunt:

Welcome, welcome beautiful child to this amazing wondrous world. You are already dearly loved by so many people.

You were conceived with thought, passion, and love ~ a perfect combination of motivations and a powerful foundation to build your life upon.

You are blessed to be the first born of two parents who greatly value and respect human life and have already done so much to make this world a more lovely place by creating countless pieces of art that bring joy to all that know them. You are, and always will be, the most significant and precious of these creations.

Life is a gift, as overwhelming in beauty as it is in pain. Pain is necessary for survival; it is an instrument that helps teach us right from wrong, as well as what is important enough to endure it. Beauty is equally as necessary for survival, as it is the physical manifestation of the divine within all things; searching it out within every person and situation can give hope in the bleakest of circumstances. Love Beauty.

Throughout your life, the ever crumbling corporate world will try and convince you happiness is attainable through possessions and social status. This is a lie. Monetary and social success is as inconstant and fickle as the weather, and loving these things will weigh you down and steal your youth. Happiness can always be found in nature. The skies, oceans, rivers, fields, and trees sigh collectively with you as you dream, will always offer refuge, and never be a place of judgment. You will never see a reflection of God in a bank account, but the Divine is undeniable in the shadow of a mountain. Love Nature.

You are the child of two souls who deeply long for peace although you are being born into a world at war. Nations are battling nations, ideals are warring with each other, and the Church would have you bring battles of faith into your home. We are told the things worth fighting to protect are the things worth dying for. Nothing worth sacrificing your life for would ever ask you to do so. Love Peace.

There is a joy unlike any other that is felt when you step back to survey a piece of yourself exhibited through an artistic medium. Clay, canvas, ink, paper, half notes, quarter notes, an arm outstretched to rhythmic beat…the human gift of creating art separates us from the animals and enables us to beautify the world and the lives of everyone we come in contact with. Never limit yourself artistically – adhering to boundaries is the death of new thought and self expression. Never underestimate the power you have to change the world through creating. Love Art.


The dream of a world at peace will never be brought to pass if we do not foster love, forgiveness, and acceptance within our families first. No doubt you and your parents will disagree – there will be times you will be right and they won’t see it. It is always acceptable to question what they teach you, not to ignore it. They want nothing but what they believe is good and right for their extraordinary daughter with an extraordinary name. The power of family is the most underrated, yet powerful force in the world today. Love Family.

Finally ~ I’ve said a lot about the world. It is a wonderful place…even more wonderful because you are now in it. There are things about it you will never understand, hard as you may try. Let your curiosity for the unknown drive you to discovery, not madness. Hunger for insight, don’t insist upon it. Do not create explanations for the unexplainable. Faith for faith’s sake is not beautiful and innocent, it is foolish. Love for love’s sake is foolish – but grand. Do everything in your power to learn and experience as much as you can. Don’t be afraid of making mistakes – life is what happens when you’re picking yourself up after falling down. Take chances. Be brave. Love Yourself.

I love you, precious niece.

Your crazy aunt,
Esther

Choice

Orange lights glow, barely illuminating the dark booths which embrace our bodies and hide our thoughts from outside observation. We are a tedious mistake in the making, formulating excuses in advance to mask this complication which is smoldering more intensely with every drop we swallow.

I recline and make a routine show of affection for the boy beside me, never taking my eyes off your face and the black frames that were the window to my initial attraction. Viewing you through golden wheat poison and heavy coffeehouse beat I could care less about what we are on a road rage drunken mission to destroy. What is comradery in comparison with the heat induced intoxicating question our meeting is posing?

I close my eyes and drift to the pulse of the music, a curious smile plays with the corner of your mouth, head nodding in agreement to my energy. There’s nothing to do but to dance, so we stumble from the cave, and I pause to kiss your friend in assurance of loyalty he’s done nothing to earn.

The question hangs in the air, even weeks later, as springtime evenings chase the breeze into summer nights and mornings full of awkward silences…..

….A question, doomed to be unanswered, when honor, such a forgotten quality, emerges in us both during a stolen moment of complete solitude.

We sleep alone that night, sighing in expectation for the day our integrity will reward us with someone new, unspoken for, requiring little self control and even less restraint. Honor, such a forgotten quality, battles my desire to forgo discretion and attempt another meeting. Long hot nights seem unbearable alone, but disloyalty is an even worse bed companion, so away I drift into dreamless sleep, and wake up to a new day, unsatisfied, alone, still searching, but exhaustibly respectable.

It Can Wait

I lie and wait for inspiration in this sun bathed attic confessional. Tiny miracles of flight sing outside my window, a beautiful break in the silence of early morning hangovers. Contentment is impossible with a mind this full, and I’m raging inside this still room – memories of seconds, made of eternities in glances. I pray for the day I will find inspiration in other’s eyes.

This pathetic kindergarten infatuation propelled by unplanned moments of absolute abandon between sheets in patched walled basement rooms is proving too much. He is the most unwelcome muse imaginable, making it impossible to share the only worthwhile endeavors into our art because absurd devotion, written explicit, is too honest for a Sunday morning.

The leaves shivering in the breeze outside my window beckon me from my cradle of solitude. Tonight is looming before me – my first half hearted attempt of finding something new – in something old – is exhausting. There will be laughter and flirtation no doubt. A brush here, a sigh there, leading him to believe I’m the kind of girl, twelve years junior, that wants nothing more than a silver fox substitute for legitimate attraction to buy her Coach and rail her senseless. I might be cliché, but I’m not that girl.

I feel the sun will not wait a moment longer. I have all day to write. But as I sit up, three hundred words changes nothing and the weight of sighs and undefined past moments is proving too heavy for this room, and this girl, and this house. Having everywhere to go, yet no desire to leave I lay back down. And simply open a window.

5/10/09

Tété

Tété is a French singer who I was introduced to last month by my fabulous friend Brother Dave. I've had this song - Mon Tresor - stuck in my head ever.since. He's coming to Portland next week and playing an uber tiny venue downtown. So stoked. Check out the video for this catchy tune at -

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch87tDv3lD4

I find myself humming it frequently - especially on the numerous cloudy (but happy) days that are making up this summertime.

Enjoy!

Cellar Musings

And the girl you believed you knew fades from view, replaced, unexpected, by a woman you never concieved she could be. The distant thunder of future loathing begins to rumble through your chest and your breath catches on the exhale.

The growing realization that she is no longer your instrument to play is strangely unsettling as you lean forward taking your next shot across the green pointless pastime- the roll and clash of solids and stripes set the tempo to the music she is composing with someone new... melody inviting yet unremarkable, new to your ears - finally open to the chord progessions that used to play for you alone.

She is winning at a game that has no rules, chin up- eyes wide- lips parted- heart open. Unaware the first move had been made - you've already lost. At least in her mind. Shake your head like you shook off her affection, concentrate on the new piece, square like you accuse him of being, and stutter like first grade for something to say that steals into her mind and unlocks bolted passages to insecurities.

But the locks are changed. The keys unfamiliar as the eyes that stare through you searching for something you will never be again - an inspiration. Beat your familiar phrases til they bleed, they will never ellicit another sigh of adoration.

Feeling vicious and redeemed she discerns your uncertainty and cruelty that will surely progress as the nights get warmer. Liquid courage, simmering, boiling, will explode and all the previous plans of Renaissance and change will ignite and burn burn burn this new friendship to the ground.

Napkin Scrawls

Every last Thursday in Portland, NE Alberta shuts down and the streets overflow with hopeful musicians, starving artists, and vendors peddling everything from feather and bone earrings to psychedelic mushroom chocolates. The bars are filled to capacity and the Portlanders spilling out onto the pavements can wait their turn for a table while enjoying firedancers or hulu hoop competitions in front of packed stores and coffee shops.

This previous last Thursday, PDX was blessed with an unusally perfect Spring night, and for all my good intentions of spending the evening editing and writing more, I felt something larger than myself beckoning me out. My friend Dave agreed to accompany me across the river after he got off work, and although we were pretty sure we had missed most of the action due to our late departure, we decided to chance it and check it out regardless.

We arrived to Alberta and were relieved to find the party was still in full swing. We walked the streets, not quite grounded, stopping here and there to listen to a lonely guitar or folk band, enjoying the warm breeze and variety of lifestyles on display just for us. Parched, we began the exasperating task of finding a bar with an empty chair or two. We were just about to head back to the car, thirsty and disappointed, when we heard what Dave swore was an accordion coming from the Alberta Street Public House. I was down, so we went in to investigate.

Dave, a composer and lyrical enthusiast, just about had a musical orgasm when he saw that yes, in fact there WAS an accordion - and even better- a Russian folk/ska band rocking out on stage. All I knew is that I wanted to groove and join the mass of sweaty hippie dancers already gyrating around the beer slick floor.

The room got hotter with every patron and before long we were sweating and dancing under the red lights along with the rest of the crowd, ordering round after round of Fat Tire just to stay sane in the heat. I was pretty convinced that meeting this band was what had called me out that night, until I saw the fiddle player for the main act take the stage.

"Oh god," I said to Dave, "THAT'S why we're here."

The Tequila Mockingbird Orchestra (G.T.S.) raged for close to 2 hours and ended by announcing their upcoming concert at the Someday Lounge that Saturday. Having eyed the fiddle player mercilessly from the beginning, I summoned my liquid courage, boiling by this point, and introduced myself...more accurately, accosted the poor guy and rambled about life, screaming with delight upon each new thing we had in common. His smile kept lighting up with what I believed, at the time, was attraction, while in hindsight I'm inclined to think was pure amusement. However, my sincere enthusiasm (read - unadulterated mindblowing drunken adoration) for his previous position as a "Manny" won his interest for a few more minutes, and lead him to ask what I did when I wasn't nanny-ing.

"I'm a WRITER" I yelled, laughing at myself, partly for professing to be a legitimate writer, partly because I realized, even in that moment, how crazy what I was about to do was.

"Oh really?" His smile literally made me weak in the knees.

"Want to read some?!!" Not pausing for an answer, I fished through my abyss of a shoulder suitcase for the napkin I'd been scrawling on some 30 minutes before.

The first one I shoved into his hand was some ridiculous lesbian sounding atrocity about this stunning girl dancing in front of me most of the night - which I could tell within seconds was NOT the napkin I had intended for him.

"Oh god, not THAT one, Sorry!" And I snatched it out of his hand, thrusting a second, more crumpled piece of paper into his hand.


Red lights, sexual only for the music that's about to bring us ecstasy.
Racing thoughts of sweat slick encounters with the man playing the strings like
I want him to play me.
Energy tangible
Desire audible
Heat unbearable
The beat flows through us easier than this poison
And we Smile.


"Wow. I like that one. I really like that one..."

And I went home smiling like an idiot, half a torn napkin, crumbled in a ball to be found at the bottom of my bag in the morning - the other half tucked neatly into his pocket with my cell number that he had requested.

Well, the weekend came and went and he didn't call - perhaps he lost the napkin, perhaps his half also ended up in a crumpled ball, unceremoniously discarded after witnessing me skip, yes, skip out of the bar. Either way, once the sheer humiliation over my actions wore off the next day, I was able to find joy that one by one my inhibitions as a writer are falling away...which I realize now was the real thing beckoning me out that evening, and most evenings now.

Cheers Friends.

Brother Dave and I

Alberta Street Public House