Travel Vibe

Greenspace -- Natural Flow -- Iao Valley, Maui

Photograph by author

Bursting in with comet speed,

Tailing ethereal escapes,

Folding in and out of state,

The salacious flirt now spins retreat.

Exhales draw breath with renewed interest.

Green pastures bend to golden sandstone with a deadline footnote.

Spontaneous combustion takes the fall.

Sublime surrender in rubble razes ground.

With charming rescue, wildlife rings celestial bodies.

Coincidence swims with shouldered intent.

Accidents pour with pretext.

Either way, love now enters the equation…

Tripping skyward among insanely sunny showers,

Freefalling into a bed of mudded waters,

Eyes open!

Twisting wood and ocean hues are charging the horizon.

Smiling wildly at that spark of green before a setting sun,

Standing like a hanging man released from a parody of fate.

Is that sweat upon brow hovering over a grin?

Yes! The prism discovered its flood of light.

And so it goes, a fall trips spring…

Unearthed reflection now pitches universal color!

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Beauty Bar in Manhattan speaking with a friend and fellow writer.  As a New Yorker, he mentioned that the financial crisis seems to be leveling egos and raising existential questions amongst locals.  Substantive (ad-lib) chats with a swirl of humility are on the rise again in this financial and cultural hub, according to my friend and active Manhattanite for more than a dozen years.

As spring brings with it renewed life, perhaps ushering comfort into those extemporaneous exchanges with friends and strangers is the blessing. 

(Spring Souls)

Can a soul be saved, if another soul waits?

The door you guard grants you passage to life.
You can shake your own hand on the other side.

But what if the shadows stop dancing?
Will you stand vigil?
Or spill into the night?

Do the walls coming down make you feel tall?
Or is it just another lie you fake?

Will you be callus and delete the past?
Perhaps lose yourself in task?
After all, it’s not the end of a life, right?

Can a soul be saved, if another soul waits?

I don’t know, but I will myself to turn the knob… and seek.

Tactile Cents Transforming Cultural Billings

Hi, my name is Pinky — writer and photographer.

This blog focuses on sensing a place, a people, a moment. Exploration pulls us into the magic of childhood.  It reveals the beauty and luck of being an alien on a living, breathing planet.

As global personas jostle with one another, it is up to us to continue distinguishing the nuances that make us one because our future depends on secure interdependence.

Beyond that cuddly comfort zone, the exploration begins, the aperture widens, and epiphanies connect.  

Cheers!

Election Night – Philadelphia, PA 

Exhales and Elation: Moments after Obama's Victory; Broad Street, Philadelphia, PA

I remember tuning into MSNBC in my living room… a few minutes before 11 p.m., and all indicators point to another long night.   During the last presidential election in 2004, I stayed up until 6 a.m. — futilely praying that Kerry could tow-the-line all the way to the White House — before giving into sleep as commentators continued grappling with words like “to close to call” or “electoral ballots.”

So sure, I step away for a moment… just one moment. In the den my husband and friend are having a chat and enjoying the Philadelphia skyline.  All of the sudden, I hear a nonchalant announcement that Barack Obama is our president-elect.  Immediately, the cameras cut to Obama Headquarters and the crowd at Grant Park in Chicago.   It’s really happening… Shock… complete disbelief… a breathless flood of collective, connected pride… We won! We illustrated to the pundits and talking-heads our desire to take active stewardship in our future.

Humanity, reason, truth, and empowerment:  Harvest it, and we welcome democratic participation.

Push us, and we welcome democratic participation.  But, it may not be pretty, as sampled during the 2006 midterm-elections.

Our country’s indispensable ideology — many times muddled in the championed capitalism of the “American Dream” — is our Constitutional allegiance to human rights.  Perhaps the last 8 years reminded Americans of what we could lose…  Politicians, take notice and raise the bar.  Our forefathers painstakingly provided the most just and malleable blueprint to-date so that our empire does not succumb to the pages of history as another swinging pendulum.  

We are beings of instinct.  If presented with talking points that try and spin split peas into pretty-green candied yams, we’ll either push them aside or spit them up.  Why?  Not because we are fearful of the awful taste.  We just don’t like being lied to…  

    Remember that old adage:  Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and… uhhh… yeah that’s it!

The CLOCK STRIKES 11! Freedom Rings Steps from City Hall Philadelphia

And We Believe in Something, in Someone... Yes We Can!

Street Bound photograph by author

“[A book about] 2nd chances, human connection, and the power of art and music.”  – Steve Lopez, author and columnist, L.A. Times.

From NY’s Juilliard School to L.A.’s Skid Row

The Soloist, by author Steve Lopez, tells the real life story about how a relationship between a newspaper columnist and a Skid Row musician, Nathaniel Ayer, moves a city, a mayor, and this hardnosed journalist to help the homeless and mental health communities.

People responded to the daily columns about Nathaniel in unexpected numbers because Lopez broke the rules of journalism and let it get personal, Lopez told an audience of more than 150 people at Philadelphia’s Free Library last Saturday.

Lopez was candid, animated and well received. The author opted not to read from his book. Instead, he participated in a moderated Q&A before taking questions from the audience.

(The book is being made into a movie scheduled for release in theaters this November. Robert Downey, Jr. plays Lopez and Jamie Foxx plays Nathaniel. They are done filming, Lopez said.)

A main-character synopsis about how this complex and unlikely relationship unfolds and some of the more memorable quotes from the book discussion follow:

Steve Lopez

He used to be the hard-hitting columnist that kept Philadelphia’s city council in check before moving out to L.A, same job, different fodder.

This day’s prospective storyline: Rainwater stopping escalators and, in turn, repelling public commuters. L.A. tops the list for traffic congestion in U.S. cities. Locals are averse to public transportation as it is, so this escalator thing is a big deal.

While digging for the story near an underground station, Lopez hears a violin celebrating its glory. The man playing the instrument is an unlikely figure. The violin, Lopez notices, has two strings missing.

The man, he notes, is playing without a hat or an open violin case. So, why here, Lopez is compelled to ask.

There’s the Beethoven Statue. I play here for inspiration, Lopez recalls Nathaniel’s words.

For the first time in his career, Lopez abandons professional distance and surfaces in the foreign landscape of a schizophrenic savant living on Skid Row.

Nathaniel Ayer

Nathaniel studied with YoYo Ma as a fellow student at Juilliard School because of his innate confidence.

Ignoring his mentor’s advice, Nathaniel travels from Ohio to New York for the audition. Not only is he accepted, he receives a full scholarship.

Then, sometime during his junior year, elusive voices and images start toying with his reasoning. His condition deteriorating, Nathaniel finds himself out of school and in a hospital undergoing shock therapy. He eventually lands on the streets.

Decades later, in his 50’s, Nathaniel plays the violin near an underground station in Los Angeles, when a man approaches him. The musician does not know it, but his second chance just arrived.

(It was just easier, he would later say, to live on L.A’s Skid Row with thousands of homeless – heroin addicts, drug dealers, amputees, veterans – than to lose something again.)

The following are some of the more memorable excerpts (All quotes attributed to a third person are direct phrases by Mr. Lopez during his dialogue with the moderator and the audience.):

“Music is a balancing force in his life. Notes that for 200 years have not moved.”  Music his Medicine – Disney Hall his Hospital – The Orchestra his Doctors.  –Lopez

“Do musicians inspire you Mr. Lopez the way writers inspire me?” –Nathaniel (Addressing Lopez and launching into a well-versed soliloquy from Hamlet.)

“We are brothers. We are brothers in music.” –Yo Yo Mah (Addressing Nathanael backstage at Disney Hall; Nathanael, dressed in suit and tie, nervously wondered what he would say to YoYo Mah, Lopez said.)

“He has made choices in his life, and he is out there because he wants to be out there.” --Nathaniel’s Father (Addressing Lopez, when Lopez tracked him down.)

“This chance encounter, this serendipitous moment on the street, has led to a 3-year relationship.” –Lopez

photographs by author

Independence Mall, Philadelphia, PA; April 18, 2008; An observation and endorsement of “We the people…”

As the sun descends, I lay in the grass near Chestnut Street, the zenith of the long, downward-sloping expanse of Independence Mall. I can make out the prequel to a full moon under the blue sky; its depth washed out by the beach ball size, florescent flash emanating from the stage area several blocks ahead.

Meanwhile, families, students, and contented and forlorn locals of varied age and race continue converging on the green carpet separated by streets and walkways.

We wait for Barack Obama.

Imagine plays over the speakers: A performance from Live’s frontman Ed Kowalczyk. After a couple of solos, Will.I.Am, lead singer for the Black Eyed Peas, joins Kowalczyk in a rendition of Where is the Love.

As that anti-climatic moment wanes, we wait some more.

Pleasant enough, considering that Friday is enjoying its first warm spring day in Philly.

About an hour later, at 8:45 p.m., a cheer from the crowd, one of a string, but this one seems to linger. A microphone transmits Obama’s introduction. I start walking toward the stage and pass by the Liberty Bell.

Expectations are high after the speech he gave here last month, the one that now stands alongside the orations of Kennedy and M.L.K.

Absorbed by the encompassing bubble of bated hope and Obama’s words, I stop intermittently.

He speaks for 20-30 minutes.

He broaches a McCain presidency as more Bush policy, under new leadership. He addresses Clinton’s propensity to work within Washington’s fractured politics in contradiction to the new political stage he seeks to create. He cites our country’s economic, social, and military woes.

He does not say anything particularly brilliant. But it does not matter. His speech was earth shattering before he arrived.

Thirty-five thousand people, Obama’s largest audience to date, gathered on the land that birthed this country’s freedom for Friday night politics!

And in doing so, we expanded the footprint of our minds beyond our doorways.

We needn’t wait. But we did. And now our hopes and fears spill into 4 square blocks and trickle down the arteries.

Passing Through 

The Walk 

photographs by author

Tripping:  Crossing Borders and Erasing Labels

Imagine it:  A trip outside of your element…

In a liberated moment, you settle in as the curious explorer discovering indigenous culture. Meanwhile, without suspect, your mind sneaks in briefs of self-subscribed philosophy.

The new information clashes with sound bites from its memory chip: ** But the newscaster said**But my friend said**But the infamous “they” said**But the text stated**

Should you choose to engage your wit in a duel of ideas, keep one eye open that first night. Socrates may stop by with cigars in hand. No need to fret, freewill is his baby.

Note:  20-30% of U.S. citizens own passports. The numbers are disputed, but exploration does not require a flight ticket.

Trafalgar Square Christmas Cheer

Photograph by author

It is January, not the best time to take a trip to London. The cold comes and goes; and on a good day, 45 degrees is not so bad if you dress properly. Of course, the first semi-warm day and I decide to “layer.” 

It is my husband’s last night here. I have to make somewhat of an effort, don’t I? By which I mean: jeans, a hoodie, a jean jacket, and boots. But they are really cute jeans – the type that require 3-inch heels to accommodate the longer cut that impresses slendering height. And the hoodie is a purple, synthetic, snuggly fit Armani with an oversized hood and white detailing on the cuffs. I’m not a label whore, but that’s got to count for something…

After rearranging the contents of our bags, we head out around 3 pm. We begin our excursion at Trafalgar Square, all the while snapping pictures and trying to climb the lions. (Admit it – it’s sometimes fun to play the blatant tourist). Then, a quick “oohing and ahhing” at the 10 Downing Street entranceway, followed by a snack across the street.

At 5pm, we stop in for mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The space feels blessed. Its cross-shaped intersection mends above the second largest freestanding dome in the world. On lookers and parishioners muse in the spirit of Christmas. Organs and reverberating hymns fill the cavity. The location has been a holy site since 604 A.D., although the edifice has been destroyed and reconstructed a handful of times; the latest design architected by Sir Christopher Wren, after the Great Fire of London.

As night falls, we go to Leicester Square. A carnival has pocketed the space for the holidays. Bumper cars, a giant rotating stick that looks like it has two spinning wheels on each end (complete with slack-jawed figurines), cotton candy, dinging bells, and popcorn air dance with our senses. Even the English have taken a break for the holidays, releasing the stick momentarily. We take a spin in the bumper cars. The cars are faster here and you can really feel the jerk upon impact, so we take another. This time, I drive.

We end the night at a cafe – a perfect day.

The Morning After

I wish I could say the same about the next morning, but I can’t. My body burned and pounded.Great – down with the flu on the first solo day of my trip. And I have to change hotels again – the downside of getting hooked up with friendly rates in decent accommodations. But I mustn’t complain. Otherwise, I would be on a plane home, with the dollar being in a more terrible way than I am at the moment.

After checking into my new accommodations, I head for the Indian restaurant across the street.

“May I please have some Dal?” I ask, as I rest my arms on the white tablecloth.

“And…” the waiter prompts.

“…and Nann, and make that a large Dal?”

He continues staring through me. “That’s it,” I squeeze out, “Look, I am sick, and I can’t eat anything else.”

“Then you’ll have to take it to go.”

“That’s fine,” I quip and shift into my chair sideways; my eyes blurring out the triptych of windows on either side of the restaurant’s facade.

“Hello,” I say instinctively to the only other customer in the room – a small, unassuming woman with silver hair and olive skin.

“Where are you from,” she asks, taking note of my accent.

“Philadelphia.”

“Why are you here – holiday?”

“No, I’m here searching out stories about South Asians in London. Their stories begin about a generation or so before that of South Asians stateside…thought it would be an interesting comparison. I am a writer,” I said in jumbled order. Hey, I am sick over here. She nods. “Actually, I would like to hear your story if that’s okay. Do you mind if I come sit with you for a moment?”

With that, my conversation with Joyce began.

Graphics by Pinkscript

A  documentary initiated a trip to the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, PA and provided the impetus in writing the following poem.

Tasting her wine in sweet surrender,

Sliding down her surface bender,

His upward glance tumbles down her silhouette.

Her perfect form stares him back without regret.

Stinging wounds find him lying in her salty pool,

Vaporizing before him, as time and water duel.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

Her flawless dress deems her less intense.

Dripping, he stands worrying only of the hour.

Fevering, he toils with drunken power.

Erecting glass houses, he crafts tomorrow.

His watchful eyes wet hers with all she can borrow.

Rinsing down to relief,

Her air perfumed in belief,

Hand in hand, they waltz in step out the door.

Slipping, he shrugs as she hits the floor.

She loses breath out of season,

Seeing anew the shades that colored her reason.

Kissing joy in change brought on by sorrow,

He smiles: No need to wallow.

I needed the amber in your wine to paint tomorrow.

Do you follow?

Summer Zen Rittenhouse Park

photograph by author

Standing at the corner of Walnut and 19th Street, I watch as a Hugo Boss suit, French cuffs, Jimmy Choos, and Burberry Bags make their way up Walnut Street from the East. A Beatles tee, vintage jeans, Cargo shorts, and flip-flops make their way down from the West. They follow the perimeter of the square’s stonewalled entrance and cross into one of the park’s more ornate passageways alongside one another.

Located between University City and the swanky shops of Rittenhouse Row, the park and the city blocks flanking its perimeter share a symbiotic relationship that embodies the revitalization of Philadelphia and its residents.

The unique sense of community and artistic vibe Rittenhouse Park expresses has not gone unnoticed. In 2005, Robert Downey Sr., the namesake of his famous son, released the documentary, Rittenhouse Square. In the film, Downey expounds on the juxtaposition of the square and its’ residents. Urbanite, Jan Jacobs, has referred to the square as the perfect American neighborhood.

Crossing the street, I angle my way into the square’s urban refuge and notice the Hugo Boss suit. The man adorning it grins as a little boy, with his curly-brown locks tousling about, runs toward him. The spiky-haired guy in his Beatles tee swaggers toward a group of friends gathered around one of the many blankets dotting the grass.

The scene would put a smile on William Penn’s face, I imagine. During the late 17th century, Penn envisioned a city plan housing 5 park-squares, urban refuges, where people could congregate and share ideas. Adorned with Victorian architecture, residential high-rises, outdoor restaurants, pubs, specialty shops, hotels, bookstores, and the world famous Curtis Institute of Music, the surrounding bounty engages and attracts eclectic new acts that play harmoniously with its center-stage performance. Like a present-day Monet painting, the grounds capture the fluidity of color in style.

It is 6:00 p.m. on Friday. My husband and I are meeting at the park before getting together with some friends for a drink at Rouge. (The outdoor seating offers a front-row view of the park.)

Shaded by a bounty of trees, my strut shifts into an amble. I take a moment and inhale the scent of spring that permeates from the well-manicured gardens.

Fashionistas loiter about. A couple of twenty-something guys toss a Frisbee. An artist sets up his easel. Two women garbed in colorful Saris pass by.

Casting my eyes down one of the webbed walkways lined with benches, I see no sign of my husband near our usual bench. A call to his cell indicates he is on the other line. Brushing past a police officer (a normal presence in the park), I spot him near the reflecting pool. His eyes catch mine. He waves and puts up an index finger, indicating that he should be available within the minute.

Not holding my breath, I set my tote down on the nearest bench.

As I crack open my newly purchased Marian Keyes novel, the scurried activity of silver-haired men catches my eye. Preparing to engage in what I can only surmise to be the ultimate chess playoff, they set up three boards on three consecutive benches. Each player straddles the end of his respective concrete slab contemplating his attack. Their friends youthfully jostle about, keeping abreast of the action on all fronts.

With the strum of a guitar, my mind segues. Sure enough, it’s the dark-haired musician clad in his signature-black tee and jeans. As he plays, he checks out the scenery from atop a slab of concrete resting on columns that surround the plaza’s interior perimeter.

Having seen one another around, we both exchange a smile. Sitting in close proximity, our eyes rest on a homeless man with one arm stretched out over the reflecting pool. After a short pause, his arm unlocks, and he tosses a coin into the fountain. Once again the guitarist and I exchange a smile.

“Ready?” my husband asks.

“Let’s roll…”