lady things

lady shoes

 i only did the party "scene" one night in miami. and while working 12 hour days was exhausting, i don't think i would have been able to do the "scene" anyway. these people are C R A Z Y

lady drinks

try to remember that time in september

i have been a little down recently ~ but if you actually read my ululating, you know that i am a constant swing of craziness.

so, in lieu of a potential future trip to my other home, i decided to go back and try to save some of my plethora of musings from my 2007 trip to africa. at the time i was a myspace devotee. now that myspace has all but devolved, i've transported some of those thoughts over here. the shifting sands of the interwebs weren't able to hold everything. what will our future generations do? will they forget us entirely with no record to show for ourselves? ah well.

so for the babies i may never have, or at least for my niece...

June
July
the kili climb
August
September
October

limbo: when the aliens descend

there is a state between awakefulness and dreaming. it is unrecognizable when you are in it- the state of full cognition flows right into this limbo without marker. but it seems to me that this limbo might as well be a whole 'nother person taking over my body. invading my skin as my conscious slips from control. maybe it's an alien having fun with a corporal human. or maybe it is a me from an alternate world.

i have often wondered if our dreams are reality some where -- after all, if the multi universe theory is correct , everything that can be is somewhere. why not then our dreams?     if in a dream we can see into another version of ourselves, maybe this limbo is a different kind of blurring between our realities. this would explain why i still feel like me even if i can only vaguely remember what has happened, what i have said and done.

could this also be what happens when we drink? maybe not when we just drink to a state of drunkeness, but when someone's conscious blacks out, when we are still acting and speaking and doing, but not recording any of it. maybe we aren't recording it because a different version of ourselves is recording it.

have you ever stayed up all night? had a sleep over? as a four year old or fourteen or forty four? have you had those late night conversations where you know you are making complete sense and then you wake and your friend or partner or sister laughs and says "you were saying the funniest shit last night!" and you don't remember.

i have long loved to document those moments. well, i love to capture those moments for myself. but if they involve other people they can sometimes be embarrassing or too revealing just as often as they can be good fun.

but alone they are like tapping into some secret. the bulk of my really bad poems in highschool came from mining limbo. i wouldn't be able to sleep, would sit up under my skylight with my journal de jour and scribble away my thoughts. in the morning i would look over what i had written. the last few pages often enough were illegible - even my other selves have atrocious hand writing. but before it trailed off into chicken scratch, there was pure adolescent angst gold.

i don't do this anymore. i don't have the luxury, my days packed going from one thing to the other in my desperate attempt to realize a career of a working artist in nyc. it seems my nights are a delicate balance between struggling to sleep and dropping like a rock. if i tried to write as i sleep, i'd probably keep my mind spinning on endless tracks till dawn breaks.

however, i do take a very long subway to my pinnacle of manhattan. at least late at night i do. and i am becoming adept at thumb typing. which means my itouch is filled with "notes" thumbed out as i force my eyelids open to stave off opportunistic thieves, rapists, and hoboes.   sadly the touch screen keyboard isn't quite as forgiving as my  young penmanship. and the apple provided automatic word correction doesn't always help.

but flipping through those late night subway ramblings, i again wonder- just whose thoughts have been pouring out?  i'd like to meet her.    


ps. if you haven't seen the joe iconis rock and roll jamboree yet, what is wrong with you? don't you get how awesome it is? my sister, katrina rose dideriksen, is a superstar and joe iconis somehow taps my brain. not to mention the awesome stylin' of the rest of the iconis family. seriously. get on the train.

upon waiting for the 1 train.

there's a cool breeze teasing the edge of my miniskirt as i wait on the above-ground train platform- a treasured rarity in the depths of summer in the city.
i can see across the harlem river from here.
there is a small peak of rolling green hills amid the high rises which, seduced by the momentary fresh air, reminds me of italy.
which reminds me that my passport has just expired. damn.

but, i can't bear to sink below that film of disappointment. so i brush it aside, closing my eyes and turning my face into the beating sun.

here and now i will relish living in a destination city, even if the language is my own and the gleam has long faded and my dreams sit dusty in plastic storage crates under my one-side mussed bed.

the sky is bright blue. the color richer through my fancy sunglasses, a deeply perfect robin's egg.
it is surprisingly quiet for a 9am work day. the truck grumblings muffled somehow. a siren does a quick crescendo, but just as quick fade out, leaving only the light chatter that beats below the city, a heartbeat that never stutters.

there is no train in sight. unsurprisingly. i'm going to be late. the mismanagement of public transit is just another truth to be swallowed down on a pretty day.
but it does mean the tracks extend unblemished into the distance, curving enticingly away.

how many pictures of roads from all over the world are scattered in my life?

each curving forward. a promise, as all roads are, of paths ahead and paths behind.

she used to be a classy lady. and then she met me.

in her mother's dress. beautiful.

so the question i've been asking myself since The Wedding is: is blacking out the gods way of giving you a free pass?

yeah, yeah. i know your answer to that one. however, this time (not that i make a habit of this sort of thing) it kinda feels like it was. a little gift from above, saying, you made it here, it's done, you can let go.

i mean, really. i am a damn fine imbiber. i enjoy a cold beer. love a cocktail on the beach. i lust over a perfect bloody mary. i dream of sweating Kilimanjaros in the African twilight. while i don't often go crazy, i have had my share of wild nights all over the world.  so why, on this occasion, with barely 4 drinks over an 8 hour period did i manage to lose an entire evening?

well, let's just say there was a heck of a lot of stress on this wonderful televised weekend.  some i brought with me-- though the "gay hell" :) of my dear friend's first fashion show all night before was not one of those stresses and is a story for another time.-- most i walked into disembarking at LAX.

there are too many awful stories to tell, somehow squashed into 72hr period. and some are not my stories to share. the main lesson though, is tv producers have only one priority and it won't be yours.

the "real" wedding ceremony was beautiful. almost the complete opposite of the wonderful event i last attended. a complete, honest to goodness orthodox ceremony, full of pomp and circumstance.

from the ornate church, to the greek cantor singing, and the careful attention to procedure, my biggest concern was not being struck down for all my wickedness.

not that it was free from the TLC debacle touch. there was a moment of impending catastrophe when one of the TLC photogs  started to cross into the inner alter sanctum that literally no one but the priest is allowed to enter or fear the wrath. i hesitated a moment too long for maria's parents' sanity, for fear of crossing the magical line myself, before reaching in and pulling him to safety.

we had some time after the church ceremony to reach and prepare for the second course. i maybe should have taken a nap in the limo. having pulled an all-nighter, then a very late night with the rehearsal dinner and catching up with long missed UI lovies, a very early morning with the stylists, not to mention jet-lag, a nap--even in my bridesmaid dress--might have helped in the whole let's-remember-this-evening plan.

ah well. hindsight.

instead we took the limo to the cali favorite In & Out. i had half a milk-shake. again, smart? no.

the second location for the day was a mansion high up in the hollywood hills. the guests had a large open lawn to mill around while waiting -endlessly- for the ceremony. the cliff side pool served as the open air alter. guest rooms made for bridal party respite and the wide courtyard made for bar, dinner, and dancing.

on television, i'm told, it looked like a dream. i haven't yet seen it myself.  my outlook on the place, what little i remember, is marred by the series of disasters, from stupid scripted mess-ups, to down right life endangering f*ck ups.

guests hike the mountain after 2nd bus breaks down

it probably would have helped if someone on that production crew had realized prior to the actual event that the mansion was in a cell-phone dead zone and that the crews' walkie-talkies would only work within a few feet range.  maybe some of the mess could have been easily resolved before it affected the rest of the evening.

the "party bus" waits patiently for the firemen to fix things above

but that is seemingly a lot to ask for from TLC. for some of the guests, including our wonderful UI family, the mistakes just added to a fabulous story. but maria and jeff repeatedly begged the crew to get things under control.

i often write here about memory and the creation of reality.

what is more important? what is more true?

is a list of "facts" more real than what we remember? and when the memory fades, polished by time, is that true? if we agree that what we remember to be real is more important than bare fact --"Maria Pallas wed Jeff Dyll on May 8th, 2010"--whose memory wins?

is it lisa's, who brought a calm touchstone in the midst of girly hysteria all weekend? is it mimi's, who overran incompetent caterers from poisoning the bride's family? maybe brent's, whose full bottle of maker's mark was an empty bottle before the over delayed tv ceremony even began?

i hope it is not my fellow bridesmaids', whose drama erupted, melting everything in its path.  surely maria and jeff's parents get some say, though they might not want the paramedics or panic attacks marked for all time.

the "happy" couple's memories should get most weight. and there are lovely pictures of the stunning bride and handsome groom to help cement those memories. though, as my best friend, i would wish away the heartbreak, the frustration, the sobs from maria's truth.

of course my own plays like reel-to-reel, where the projectionist has lost the second case.

not so TLC's "reality." it has been captured, cut, and recombined. it has been smoothed to a glistening 47 minutes of dreamy perfection. where a couple's "wish" to have fantasy only hollywood can provide is maybe the only thing that was really delivered. a fantasy.

twenty years from now, which will remain?

as long as no one shares a certain tape, my guardian something-or-other decided my reality never needs to include a certain speech.

classy ladies always cry.

classier ladies save each other.

salvador dalí, only in new york

the museum of the city of new york has an exhibition currently showing called "only in new york" based on photographs from the LOOK magazine archives. as usual, the archival images of new york are really compelling. what is it about this city that holds people's fascination?

living in new york is not easy-at least not for everyone. for me it is hard as hell. despite all my education, training, experience in multiple fields, i struggle to make ends meet, working several part time jobs in order to live out the desire of achieving my dreams. yet with the stress is the high ups of pleasure, entertainment, culture at your fingertips like a drug.  sometimes it feels new york embodies the ultimate schizophrenic, bipolar personality. something that, admittedly, flirts with my own artistic self.

life between the boroughs is literally crossing borders of culture and language. the economic classes, despite living on top of one another in the 22 square miles of manhattan, subsist in alternate realities. money changes not just your daily schedule but your entire relationship with the city. but even within your own reality life is in constant flux here. ups and downs, light and dark, sunlit days and megawatt nights, subway tunnels and grand ballrooms, high art and xxx porn, bikram yoga and hangovers.

it is surreal.

one of my good friends from the past is in town. whenever i am confronted with the reality of life outside of new york against my own day to day hyperbole, i see a bit of the edges of our bubble ny life.

i appreciated the jolt of salvador dali this morning. i have always had a fondness for dali, picked up as a self possessed teenager with limited drawing skills, but a ridiculous imagination. some how he captures the edge of reason with an air of both impending mortality and hysterical giggle. today, i feel that struggle not only in my own work as an actress, but in my aesthetic of life.

and on that note, a few dali quotes for the day:

I am painting pictures which make me die for joy, I am creating with an absolute naturalness, without the slightest aesthetic concern, I am making things that inspire me with a profound emotion and I am trying to paint them honestly.

The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.

The desire to survive and the fear of death are artistic sentiments. 

tongue tied and foolish

how is it that i go from normal -well, sort of :| - normal human being to tongue tied mute? clearly the question of the day. what is this, high school? the pathetic thing is, i know how i come off in these moments- stand off-ish, uninterested. when really, it is simply my own awkwardness.

but it was a beautiful day. and perfect for a run- though i didn't manage the full 12 miles. sigh.



thump thump thump- i'm not a very graceful runner. still, the first time out not dressed like an eskimo was nice. in another life, i'll be one of those perfectly matched joggers, stylishly taking on the hudson with a breezy smile.

spring was in the air. the sun, the flowers, the nannies with their babies. riverside park was overwhelmed with babies and toddlers as their nannies gossiped or chewed out their phones.

each time i lumber through the park i find myself imaging a traditional life. what would it be like to be one of those professional mothers, my children trotted out for sunshine? what if i used my time in africa to get a "real" job, a husband, a family? it makes me feel much younger than i am. that i am so far from where my contemporaries are. to be single in the city one has to be much more suave than i have in me. i'm too much a home body.

thump thump thump. american idol. a guilty pleasure. "idol gives back" to "africa" though africa was clearly only east africa- kenya, uganda, my own tanzania. there they were with the dala dalas! crying over the mud huts! where were they? not moshi, but dar? heartsick for a world away. but here i am in the apple. with people i admire. with my work. my friends. muted.

thump thump thump. it is easy to imagine conversations, actions- play them out in my head like a 2nd rate novel. but, truthfully, i play it too cool- masking my fiery emotions- i'm reserved when i should be pushy, smile when i should laugh. life shouldn't be saved for the stage. you should live it. right?

what will it take to break the pattern?

Siku ya kufa nyani miti yote huteleza ~ the day a monkey dies, all tree are slippery

musings while running

musings while running

i love when everything falls into place
only happens after i've given up the race
well i have eyes to see
i have life that's bursting forth inside of me.
so lets take the long way home
every moment i spend with you
lets make it slow, slow, slow
we'll count the moments as they go
~catherine maclellan

when you hear a song, is the message to you? or from you? is it meant for the moment and should you take heed? or is it just for the singer? or is it just chords?

when is my song no longer mine? i used to think when my songs and my play were performed for a crowd, they were still meant for me alone. but once everything is broken, do they now belong to a girl i've never met?

when the workers have all gone home, and it is just me and a 4 foot bird in fields of deep green coffee bushes, their little white flowers intoxicating, and the clouds clear, and the mountain is crisp and the vista suddenly extends forever and you can hardly breath for the beauty of it, is it for me alone? is it a smile? a blessing? a warning? or nothing at all? if i am not there to see it, if my heart does not skip a beat, is it meaningless?

if i am no longer yours, and your love is no longer mine, did i ever have it at all?

what is really mine? the few dollars-or shilingi- in my bank account? i suppose that belongs to the bank, unless i took them out and stuffed them under my pillow. but the pillow isn't mine either. it is my parents' or my landlord's... i once stole a thimble from a lost boy. that is mine. a faded painting with a faded promise. that is mine too.

my heart has many parts, the walls built thick with age. if i have given you part, when you no longer want it, do i get it back? or is it lost forever? does my heart grow bigger to make up for the partitions? or am i left with a little less for me each time? maybe those pieces still belong to others, not who they are now, but who they were then. the 6 year old, the 16 year old, the 21 year old... and yet just the right dart can somehow pierce the walls even now.

maybe it is better to save yourself for the mountain, the country, the perfect moment. at least they never change and you can always return and visit and even the coldest heart will beat.
 

Restituta and Chrisburger

today was Resti's last day working at KIWAKKUKI. she is an amazing women. hard to grasp that we are the same age-a reflection of what i might have been in another time and place, she's my mother's "african daughter." KIWAKKUKI supported her as an orphan, put her through school from primary all the way to get her social work degree. instead of going for a higher paying job, she came back to the organization to help other AIDS orphans.

she was married last christmas and her husband has been living in another town all this time. it doesn't seem fair that he can't move here. when i asked, she looked at me as if i was crazy. Kichaa! (mad)
i'll miss her