Sunday, July 26, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A Bulb Fowler in the Green
When I was a little girl in Detroit, I used to stand all day in the shadows of the bushes that grew behind our house. Perhaps grandpa had planted a few shrubs along the fence way back in the seventies before I was born. Now they were all wild; wild, green and independent of us, the family who lived inside. In springtime, the rain came day after day, so that by my birthday, wild flowers hid low in the foliage, their orange and purple petals peeking out from a blanket of heavy green. I would walk beside them, keeping close so that I could hide from the sun under the shady canopy. By July the leaves and vines were so high that I could jump into them and play. I never did. I only tiptoed through the brier, searching for Hyacinths. I only ever found one. It was a beautiful, white flower. The scent of it drew me deep into the patch and I followed the trail of its’ fragrance on the breeze. It stood alone among the dark green blanket, deeply rooted. I climbed in and smiled when I drew close. It was so sweet! My young heart was delighted. I quickly picked the flower and ran inside to show my gramma.
Gramma said she didn’t plant it, it just grew.
“I don’t know sugarplum, maybe old Mrs. Rhys had them in the back of the house before I bought it. Maybe it’s just a wild thing. You ought go ask Bernice. I don’t know much about Hyacinths.”
I put my summer prize in a jar of water and ran next door with it. Our neighbors, the Lawerences (a name I never knew until I was a woman), were Bernice and Shorty. A sweet old couple who seemed to fit together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. A pint sized pair, they lived in a house that looked like it was built for a hobbit. The front door was heavy streaked elm, and the entrance to the little home protruded out of the rest like a cute, round bubble. It looked like a house built into the hollow of a tree. It had a sharply slanted roof and shutters as dark as the leaves behind our house. For this reason I loved their little gnome cottage. It was welcoming to little people and imaginary creatures.
That day, I ran past the front door and the pink tulips. I skipped along the side of the cottage where the bed of yellow daffodils glowed in the sun. I ran carefully, with irregular footsteps to protect my treasure. The garage door was open. Shorty’s tractor lawn-mower sat in front. I called into the darkness.
“Shorty! Shorty!” The familiar smell of motor grease and pipe tobacco mixed with the sweetness of the flower as a staunch figure wafted out from the darkness.
“Nice to see you today Bear!” He said huskily, like an old, baseball coach. He wore his everyday uniform, a navy, workman’s suit with silver snaps up the front.
“Shorty look what I found! Look what I found in the green!” I chirped, holding the jar high above my head. Shorty removed the pipe from his lips and bent to examine my treasure.
“Hmm, a Hyacinth, sure enough.”
“It smells sooo good, better than perfume!” I held the jar under his nose.
“What’cha gone do with it Bear, give it to your old pal Shorty?” I squealed and we both laughed. His was the deep chuckle of an old man.
“No, it’s for my gramma.”
“Well I think that’s a great idea, but you’d better go show Bernice first. She’s in the house.”
“Okay, bye Shorty!”
“Bye Bear.” He put his pipe back in place and went back into the garage.
Bernice was standing in the kitchen fixing ham and cheese sandwiches. The Lawernces’ house was cute, and it smelled of old things that were still sweet. Bernice had exactly the same smell. She praised the beauty of my flower and gave me half of a sandwich.
“Bernice,” I asked between mouthfuls of wheat-bread, “Why don’t you have any Hyacinths? You have every other flower.” She laughed graciously.
“Not every flower Bear.”
“You’ve got a lot.” I finished my sandwich. “Can you plant some of these for next year?”
“Well, I don’t think they are compatible with the others,” I frowned like a pug. “But we’ll see. Come, let’s look at the flowers.”
We strolled out into the hot sun. Bernice wore a wide-rimmed, beige hat. She walked slowly, gently. I walked beside her with my jar. She explained what all the different flowers were around the house and why some can’t be planted beside others. By the time we had encircled the cottage and arrived at the vegetable-garden in the back, I was worn out from listening. I sat down on the grass.
Bernice placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the flourishing garden.
“Ugh!” she picked up a yellow vegetable and scowled in disgust. “These darned jackrabbits! They keep eating my turnips!”
“Rabbits?” I echoed, jumping to my feet.
“Yes, they’re horrible. I don’t know how to get rid of them without harming my plants.” I looked at my beloved Hyacinth and felt sympathy for her.
“Come Bear, I want to give you some tomatoes for Carlie.”
We bent down in the bushes, searching for the perfect summer tomatoes. It was mainly me crawling quickly under the plants, digging the deep, red tomatoes off the garden floor as Bernice directed my little hands. After half an hour I met my grandmother in our living room with six beautiful tomatoes and five delicious, homemade sugar-cookies.
“My, my, you made out like a bandit!” She exclaimed taking the jar and the tomatoes.
My grandmother sliced the summer tomatoes and ate them with salt. I ate my cookies, which were big, fluffy sugar cookies that weren't too sweet.
Throughout the following week I gazed at my flower in adoration. When the smooth, white petals began to brown and wilt, I again traversed the cool shadows of the green behind the house. I desperately searched for another Hyacinth or the sign of a baby bulb on the way, but there was nothing; only yellow Daisies and orange Lilies. I had picked the last Hyacinth. After it died I felt like a fool. None ever grew again.
Copyright 2004 by Starryeyeslie
Gramma said she didn’t plant it, it just grew.
“I don’t know sugarplum, maybe old Mrs. Rhys had them in the back of the house before I bought it. Maybe it’s just a wild thing. You ought go ask Bernice. I don’t know much about Hyacinths.”
I put my summer prize in a jar of water and ran next door with it. Our neighbors, the Lawerences (a name I never knew until I was a woman), were Bernice and Shorty. A sweet old couple who seemed to fit together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. A pint sized pair, they lived in a house that looked like it was built for a hobbit. The front door was heavy streaked elm, and the entrance to the little home protruded out of the rest like a cute, round bubble. It looked like a house built into the hollow of a tree. It had a sharply slanted roof and shutters as dark as the leaves behind our house. For this reason I loved their little gnome cottage. It was welcoming to little people and imaginary creatures.
That day, I ran past the front door and the pink tulips. I skipped along the side of the cottage where the bed of yellow daffodils glowed in the sun. I ran carefully, with irregular footsteps to protect my treasure. The garage door was open. Shorty’s tractor lawn-mower sat in front. I called into the darkness.
“Shorty! Shorty!” The familiar smell of motor grease and pipe tobacco mixed with the sweetness of the flower as a staunch figure wafted out from the darkness.
“Nice to see you today Bear!” He said huskily, like an old, baseball coach. He wore his everyday uniform, a navy, workman’s suit with silver snaps up the front.
“Shorty look what I found! Look what I found in the green!” I chirped, holding the jar high above my head. Shorty removed the pipe from his lips and bent to examine my treasure.
“Hmm, a Hyacinth, sure enough.”
“It smells sooo good, better than perfume!” I held the jar under his nose.
“What’cha gone do with it Bear, give it to your old pal Shorty?” I squealed and we both laughed. His was the deep chuckle of an old man.
“No, it’s for my gramma.”
“Well I think that’s a great idea, but you’d better go show Bernice first. She’s in the house.”
“Okay, bye Shorty!”
“Bye Bear.” He put his pipe back in place and went back into the garage.
Bernice was standing in the kitchen fixing ham and cheese sandwiches. The Lawernces’ house was cute, and it smelled of old things that were still sweet. Bernice had exactly the same smell. She praised the beauty of my flower and gave me half of a sandwich.
“Bernice,” I asked between mouthfuls of wheat-bread, “Why don’t you have any Hyacinths? You have every other flower.” She laughed graciously.
“Not every flower Bear.”
“You’ve got a lot.” I finished my sandwich. “Can you plant some of these for next year?”
“Well, I don’t think they are compatible with the others,” I frowned like a pug. “But we’ll see. Come, let’s look at the flowers.”
We strolled out into the hot sun. Bernice wore a wide-rimmed, beige hat. She walked slowly, gently. I walked beside her with my jar. She explained what all the different flowers were around the house and why some can’t be planted beside others. By the time we had encircled the cottage and arrived at the vegetable-garden in the back, I was worn out from listening. I sat down on the grass.
Bernice placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the flourishing garden.
“Ugh!” she picked up a yellow vegetable and scowled in disgust. “These darned jackrabbits! They keep eating my turnips!”
“Rabbits?” I echoed, jumping to my feet.
“Yes, they’re horrible. I don’t know how to get rid of them without harming my plants.” I looked at my beloved Hyacinth and felt sympathy for her.
“Come Bear, I want to give you some tomatoes for Carlie.”
We bent down in the bushes, searching for the perfect summer tomatoes. It was mainly me crawling quickly under the plants, digging the deep, red tomatoes off the garden floor as Bernice directed my little hands. After half an hour I met my grandmother in our living room with six beautiful tomatoes and five delicious, homemade sugar-cookies.
“My, my, you made out like a bandit!” She exclaimed taking the jar and the tomatoes.
My grandmother sliced the summer tomatoes and ate them with salt. I ate my cookies, which were big, fluffy sugar cookies that weren't too sweet.
Throughout the following week I gazed at my flower in adoration. When the smooth, white petals began to brown and wilt, I again traversed the cool shadows of the green behind the house. I desperately searched for another Hyacinth or the sign of a baby bulb on the way, but there was nothing; only yellow Daisies and orange Lilies. I had picked the last Hyacinth. After it died I felt like a fool. None ever grew again.
Copyright 2004 by Starryeyeslie
Works In Progress
this is BRAND NEW!
the model is Adriana Lima, and this is a Remix of a satirical piece on the oppressive frivolity of western fashion magazines. Not to say I don't dig fashion. I love, love , love me some Alexander McQueen, Tom Ford, Matthew Williamson, Rebbecca Taylor, Chanel.... I just don't agree with the magazines' decided relationship with the consumer.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Randoms
If life is for Lions, I'm undoubtedly one.
If July is for Vengeance, thus far I've won.
Since August is for Lions, I guess that makes two.
Give me no reason and I'll never wrong you.
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
Sola looks like someone punched her in the face. Was that you life?
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
If July is for Vengeance, thus far I've won.
Since August is for Lions, I guess that makes two.
Give me no reason and I'll never wrong you.
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
Sola looks like someone punched her in the face. Was that you life?
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
"More than a Conqueror"
What does it mean to be more than a conqueror?
Are you more than a subjugator?
More than a power mongol?
More than a desperate wolf?
You have in your hands
at this moment, a man,
a boy really, now with child
at 360 degrees you lie.
You open your legs
like a flower from the sky.
You clutch him inside,
a vile plan you devise.
A pie of deceit
is disguised as a sweet.
No mother, no Madonna,
just a whore, with a chore,
to conquer, then destroy,
to manipulate a boy
who is fragile
like paper on the wind.
Should he blow away
in the game that you play
The Universe guarantees
suffering to your seed.
Taint an unborn life and find,
that Karma's a bitch and she never dies.
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Black Rock Alive and Well with TVOR
By Layla Sola
The AmNews
TV On the Radio, is a Williamsburg band preparing of departure. Their sophomore, album, “Return to Cookie Mountain,” is a collage of (primarily), harmonious contradictions. Afropunk hipster's in plaid, all but one member of this five-piece, rock ensemble are Black (on the outside). TVOR crushes racial stereotypes and musical prototypes with their electro-washed, alternative, rock experiment that’s quite often good.
Sampling, layering and multi-syncing lend an electro-industrial sound to TVOR’s palate of rock. Tracks like the artful melodica, “Blues Down Here,” and “Let the Devil In,” are refreshingly unpredictable in their musical approach, meshing techno-inspired, electro samples over acoustic sounds and rock and staples. Occasionally, the group over-embellishes, resulting in cacophonous noise reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. Penchant to playing with different pitches and vocal harmonies, TVOR has undoubtedly been influenced by British rock, which may be why David Bowie is such a huge fan and even lends his pipes on “Providence,” a slowly crooned piece about America.
While TVOR’s signature style may be fusion, the influence of rock on the group is obvious. “Wolf Like Me,” beats with the insatiable lust of an indie, rock classic and is instantly likeable. Its medley of gyrating drum beats, wicked guitar and an intense, vocal rush provokes a salacious ebullience guaranteed to extirpate the rebel within.
Lyrically, TVOR is leagues ahead of established rock bands. At times clever and cute, and at others, unsettling and desperate, the verses are sensual, intelligent and drenched in an immutable temperament of romantic realism, honest and surreal as the ocean.
"Return to Cookie Mountain" does suffer from an ineluctable melancholy that blankets the listener in an ethereal and dark atmosphere. There is a haunting sensuality, a supreme desolateness about TVOR’s songs, with which it is easy to identify. Like the quintessential mutineer boy band of the 1980’s, the Clash, TVOR is desperate for something, deep inside, and it’s more than just fame and money.
Monday, July 20, 2009
"Vengeance is Mine!"
Never Forget.
Maybe Forgive.
the Moment of Truth,
is in how we live.
"Vengeance is Mine!"
cried the Sun
to the Night.
And all the Day long,
he burned in great Spite.
"You wronged,
you defiled me,
you disrespected the plan!"
Cried the sun
to the Night
as he scorched every land.
Humbly, Night waited,
for Sun to burn out
and as he did,
she crept into his house.
Night blanketed everything;
she enveloped all,
Until the whole world
was under nightfall.
"Time washes all things back into Black"
said Night
to the Sun
who had cast
his last Rath.
He too now was Humble.
His Vengeance was done.
A small blackened coal,
no longer the Sun.
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
Maybe Forgive.
the Moment of Truth,
is in how we live.
"Vengeance is Mine!"
cried the Sun
to the Night.
And all the Day long,
he burned in great Spite.
"You wronged,
you defiled me,
you disrespected the plan!"
Cried the sun
to the Night
as he scorched every land.
Humbly, Night waited,
for Sun to burn out
and as he did,
she crept into his house.
Night blanketed everything;
she enveloped all,
Until the whole world
was under nightfall.
"Time washes all things back into Black"
said Night
to the Sun
who had cast
his last Rath.
He too now was Humble.
His Vengeance was done.
A small blackened coal,
no longer the Sun.
Copyright 2009 by Starryeyeslie
Realize
this piece is finished now and is for sale. I call this a child's piece because I wanted something that empowered children, but really this art could inspire someone of any age. The boy holds the world in his hand. Realize
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Afropunk
Big up to Coup d'Etat for making Afropunk shine like the sun this year. My homegirls Nikki and Katrice performed with GameRebellion.
Spike Lee Tribute
This is the art I created in dedication to Spike Lee for the Wheres Mars showcase. "Our story is a Brooklyn Brownstone scene painted with red, purple, orange and green. There are collage pieces in the film reel above that represent his films. The second piece is something inspirational I did that day titled "Realize"
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