Of Guts and Of Glory

There are so many ways to show that one is brave.  To wake up early and address the day, the rain beating a death march on your window, your bed empty, your hearth cold, that takes guts.  To fuck up, take your licks, and make a change , that requires courage.  To gather and fight against tyranny and injustice, even when the world nervously turns it’s cowardly head, that’s heart.  The act of pushing your body up the hill, over the mountain, down the crevasse,  through the waves, into the air, that takes balls.   To grab the hand of a woman who scares the shit out of you but owns your mind, a lass that fits into you like a puzzle piece when you sleep, leg under leg, arms twisted like vines, boy does that use up just about all your grit.  And for that lady to rage against the fear that holds her captive, she will be a hero today.  To rally against the dragons in your head, maybe to not slay but to domesticate and put them to work,  that’s power.  Every day we do something that requires every last inch of our resolve.  Perhaps it is an act that some other body makes with ease.  Nevertheless, courageous efforts are occurring all around us, all of the time.  Let us salute that moment in ourselves and in others with the hope that in our time of struggle the crowd is cheering us to glory.

MJ

p.s Sorry for the sanctimoniousness.  Crass, illiterate ramblings to follow stat.

 

Inspiration and Procrastibation

Self imposed deadlines just beg to be pushed back.  When your only job is the search for one, the concept of regimentation is an opaque idea.  In an attempt to structure my life I am setting a goal of at least two hours a day put towards design or the facilitation thereof.  Lucky me,  I am now in the spot with this work collection that I need to find “inspiration” and color stories.  Which should read, I need to spend hours looking at pretty pictures and the people that come into my local bar.  The down side is that this particular collection is more grounded, which renders most of my findings irrelevant.  Oh well, into the procrastibation spank bank with ya.

Thirty minutes ago I told myself I was only going to spend ten more minutes on this fandangled contraption.  And here I am.  Still sitting with my back to the window, sun warming the back of my raggedy ass football jersey/pajama top.  It just feels easier to rap with you, my trusted reader, than to put myself together and face the day.  But I will.  My vitamin D meter is in the red and if I don’t go outside I may end up with my head in the oven.  Which is not gas, so the result might be more grotesque than effective.  Ok, now I am just rambling so as to avoid the shower.

Below is some of the inspiration research that hit the cutting room floor.  I will be setting it to the musical stylings of Tears for Fears.  Let us join hands and walk down the halls of my shoe gazing youth…….

I wanted to be with you alone
And talk about the weather
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face
Won’t escape my attention

You keep your distance fear the system of touch
And gentle persuasion
I’m lost in admiration that I need you this much
Oh, you’re wasting my time
You’re just wasting time

Something happens and I’m head over heels
I never find out till I’m head over heels
Something happens and I’m head over heels
Ah don’t take my heart
Don’t break my heart
Don’t throw it away

I made a fire and watching burn
Thought of your future
With one foot in the past now just how long will it last
No no no have you no ambition

My mother and my brothers used to breathe in clean in air (Changes with those…)
And dreaming I’m a doctor (They can’t stop…)
It’s hard to be a man when there’s a gun in your hand
Oh I feel so…

Something happens and I’m head over heels


And this my four leaf clover
I’m on the line, one open mind
This is my four leaf clover
In my minds eye
One little boy, one little man
Funny how, time flies


-Head Over Heels

P.S  If you live in Oregon please get the fuck outside.

MJ

Spring, Sprang, Sprung

Finally, after false starts and heart breaking deluges of rain and cold, it seems as if Spring may have sprung.  I am aware that just the mere act of writing this may bring on another winter and if it does I will knit you all a rain poncho out of the threads of my moldy words.  And so we begin…..

After two plus weeks of hustling for those duckets behind a lawn mower and trowel I am back in Portland with the intention of staying put.  Still jobless but hopeful that Spring will bring me some prospects.  Stay tuned for a new line of woman’s work wear that I conceptualized with my friend Elisha.  While on bent knee in the mud and muck I fantasized about what I would wear if I were dry and when I realized that I might never be so,  I started on what to wear while I was wet, dirty, and toiling.  I have sketched up some pieces and will start on the material sourcing and color story as soon as I can.  If any of you readers have thoughts on what you would like in tough work wear please let me know.  I know that you all like to work outside for job or joy and would prefer to be well clothed as you do.

I was blessed with tickets to Mos Def for my birthday by one Cambria Rippa.  Oh glory be!  Having been a fan of his music, acting, and face for many moons, you can well imagine my ecstatic shouts of happy at every move he made.  And what moves!  Mr. Mos held a look of blissed out nummerness throughout and moved with the funk and grace of a troubadour.   One of my companions had nothing nice to say about his djs, and though I am inclined to agree in hindsight, I didn’t notice during the show.  All I saw was an extremely well dressed man performing perfectly just for me.  Not to mention all of the eye candy that surrounded me.  Mama likes a little color in her life……..At one point a fella approached me and commented on the superiority of my hind quarters, to which I said, “The lord giveth.”  His reply was lightning quick and just about enough to get my number immediately.  “The lord asketh me to holler at you latereth.”  Yup.

I have been harvesting photos for this blog for a while now and have some that are random enough to never fit into one category.  This is the perfect entry for such things.  The poem is by my favorite, Pablo Neruda.  He writes of ocean and wood, love and earth.  Perfection.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured
and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.


On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.

Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.

What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.
The night is fractured and she is not with me.

That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me

The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.

-from Twenty Poems of Love

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun

Not many people can wrap their minds around the suicide of a brilliant person.  It should be that the gift of being unique indebts the bearer to share this forever.  The flame of genius should sustain.   As if the fire of art is enough to keep anything but the fingers warm.  It is almost as if brilliancy whites out the ability to dust off ones hands after a tumble.  When you are looking for a reason to give up, any old thing will do.  Hind sight always allows a window into what we wouldn’t see in life.  That in itself is strangely wonderful, that death can shed light on life.  That the future can cast light forwards and back.  The tortured genius leaves us with strands that we can weave and bind into new life.   We can take hold of what was and carry it into the day, letting it snake through our intentions, giving a gilded sheen to the mundane.

I never wanted to see someone replace Alexander McQueen.  There never should have been a need for that.  And yet here we are.  The show must go on.  And what a show it is.  Spring 2011 brings us the return of his house.  He is in there still, but only as much as the fiber dictates the cloth.  His predecessor, Sarah Burton, has fashioned a lovely and timely collection.  Her warrior woman is as much queen as she is matador, as solid as the blade.  The mood is a bit chilly but I find the silhouettes to be flirty, the marriage is crazy dynamic, incendiary.  The prints are retrospective without being cloying.  Burton has crafted a wily beast.  That being said, just because there is a new captain, let us not forget who built the ship.

Below are some of my more favorite looks from the spring 2011 Alexander McQueen label.

Wowsers.  What a show of construction and skill.  Impressive.

Love All Ways,

MJ