30 March 2011

On 18th Avenue, Close to the Breakers

mi primer beso de amor. we were 24.

27 March 2011

murki in frigid february, take 2

right through the back (but god bless you)

it comes out the front and forward into the next. i would assume. if knives were a continuum. i always wonder if my lines are being used on the next pear shape? broadway in bushwick is a beautiful, i assume diagonal line, that goes south east? i equate it to market street in san francisco, minus the "broad" aspect of it. above it the j-line, below it, the shadows of these lines, the crosswalks intersect broadway, newly painted, bright white...almost every other block is home to a type of church...a little, usually hand-painted iglesia...of what denomination i'm not sure - they all look the same to me. earlier this week, on my way to the train, bright butterscotch early, i got the following from a middle aged man: "god bless you ma..." which i presume is the new "hey ma" - - - we agree that's more polite? today i was standing outside of a muraled lot, waiting for this 10 year old kid named daniel to toss up his baseball and bat it onto the mural...his father yelled "dale daniel!" from the driver's seat, and to me he said, "god bless you." i said "thank you" because i don't know for sure if jesus christ feels the same way about daniel's dad. i only see jesus in botanica stores down the avenue, scattered about in my profanities, or when i see a kid playing stick ball by himself in brooklyn in some sunset light somewhere, and even then, i probably only said "jeez."

heart pie

heart pie hand made by Anna Beeke, holder of pens, all black-clad with the strawberry mane. she on the love diet. murki and i ate too little that night.

like they say, a tiger father is not likely to have a dog son

un tiburón en 2009, mi perfil en 2005

things i like from the www, #6

© victor cobo

13 March 2011

mujellllllllllllllles hermosas

te vas con la lluvia

13 de marzo (ME)

me by Matty, by Sarita, and by Murki. this good dude named Tone told me he was turning 33 this year. without prompt he said it was great. that is, this time, now. this age. that it's like working and fixing up a thunderbird for all these years...and finally now, getting to drive it. smooth sailing....as he saw it. i picture only california, highway 1. south or north, it doesn't matter, as long as it's by the pacific, up high above the sharp, muddy green waves, on top of the imperfect perfect mountains that sprout purple succulents, salty windy fresh fucking air, past henry miller's house...coasting, hugging curves...hugging curves yes hugging curves. me me me, me me me. this day, now, furious and visible.

09 March 2011

things i like on the www, #3 (san valentín)

i have this problem where things in front of me sometimes carry less weight than those things way in the future, that i haven't seen, met, or done, or things in the past, immediate or severely buried, somewhere, in my curly, compressed, compact, impacted memory banks. i go to these banks often. i hang out there, i rebuild or remix, falsify, staring at things that may or may not be evident in the negatives before me, mine or otherwise. i consider this a problem because things there are just painful, or beautiful, or fulfilling enough to nourish me. this means that i am malnourished, truly. that i go there too much means that i live with ghosts and/or place expectations on these (beautiful) ghosts who can never give me anything other than a rack on which to hang my fears or insecurities, or offer a bit of shade under which i can shield myself from the blinding possibility and beauty of enjoying the now. the other problem is that i usually return to these memory banks with a very now perspective. this means that i consider myself to 'suffer' (relatively) through the present, and instead, appreciate the past when it feels safe. this means that it was not this beautiful face i saw, sitting in front of me some valentine's day during the mid-oughts, but rather myself sitting in front of it, blockaded by an impenetrable stone wall, in a cage i couldn't even rattle, simply because i was not able to envision anything outside, or beyond it. my ghosts never offer direction, they leave false trails, and they thwart my headway. it's a poor blueprint, and i don't forgive them.

this photo is © philip johnson.