Start with Her. What Do You Have to Lose?

So I found my picture on an Israeli website. Since I don't speak hebrew, I bought a hebrew-to-english translator. Turns out, it's a website for queers and the article is teaching/encouraging women to approach other women. I got a big kick out of it! Here's the link to the page: Ask Her, "Do You Have A Light?" and below is a loose translation (be forwarned: some parts make absolutely no sense).

Oh yeah, the caption under my photo is "Start with Her. What Do You Have to Lose?" Hilarious.

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Start with her. Ask her, do you have a light? She can always refuse you, and you will be sorry that she does not swallow you. On the other hand, if you do not try, you will not know.

We will suppose after all the searches, from exit of someone that finds a beauty bainih. What do now? The answer, of course, is " to start with her ", but it is really not that simple.

The method of the beginning changes from girl to girl, but one thing always should remain: Courage. A great deal of courage. I do not know no girl that will be sure by herself the more there will be, that unafraid from postponement. All of us we were name, and our majority not really able to deal.

Then even so, how do you start? If this is someone you already know and see her every so often in the events of the community, wait until the communal event comes. It does not change if it's a party, evening of discussion, or plays, approach her and try to develop very light conversation. If she smiles and engages you, there is a chance that she is interested and then you can request her phone number. In the accidental the most much that will succeed to enlist, in order that maybe will be met once. You will not say "will be met to skim", unless you want to there will be clear and transparent. If you want to leave this open to the conversation, in order if it will come, the postponement will be able to exempt all the interest in the lightness as if not really tried to start with her, but just were interested in the social contact, will tell simple that you want to meet.

By the way, to develop very light conversation sounds maybe easy in the theory, but when you approach someone that you like, striking up conversation may not be that simple. There is bots'it amazing one, that is convinced that the insular kio mine demarcates a century, because when I stands close to her, I really is not able to formulate a sentence, trusted and trusted not to mention something aintilignti or nimble. Not much to do in the situations like these, unless you consolidate you subjects to the conversation even before that you access her, or indoctrinate several judicial key are sophisticated or funny that will help you to capture her heart. The more you want her more, it will be harder.

If this someone that you do not know at all and you simply saw her, everything depends on the situation. If you saw her in the evening of perusal or in the intimate party at companies, you can approach her and endeavour to develop very light conversation. If you saw her at the party or in the bar, places in which more hard to develop conversation, my advice is to simply approach her, with predisposed tag by hand and in it your phone number, to say hello and to ask forthrightly if you can give her your number. Repressions that kidnapped when I used this strategy were from the most detractor and the hurt that I experienced in the lives.

One time I approached someone. She was pretty, she was rigorous, she was hyphenated companies. I crossed 20 the meters that isolated between us in the suitable heart to her with the tag by hand and asked if it's possible to give her my phone number. She reviewed me from above/up/upward down in the duration that seems like eternity, and then said, " for what?". The land not fairy and swallowed me, much to my regret, and I remember this as one of the experiences that forge that I experienced my waters. The truth is that it also doesn't have to be deplorable. Once I gave my telephone to a pretty girl that I saw in the rose Johnson.

She said thank you and smiled, but did not call. Maybe she lost the telephone. Maybe she is trampled on the way home. Maybe, not get accepted on the mind how much that it sounds, she simply there was uninterested. Things like these happen, and you must receive also rejection as an inseparable part of the process.

~ the lady lesbionic

Just Downloaded

Man, iTunes can spoil the hell out of of a girl. I got a hankering for Peter Murphy's "Cuts You Up" and within seconds I had downloaded a live version from the Alive Just for Love album. Such a good song.

Speaking of live albums, Bonnie Prince Billy's (Will Oldham) latest album (Nov 2005) is a live one called Summer in the Southeast. I gotta say that, when it comes to live albums, I'm pretty indifferent. I mean, a live show is one thing, but a live album? Typically they don't do a whole lot for me, in large part due to the fact that the studio version is usually better; cleaner. Plus, part of the thrill of a live performance is being there live yourself, right? However, BPB's record is quite impressive and only motivates me that much more to see him live. His music is pretty mellow - even the more upbeat ones - but duuuuude, the live version of "Madelaine Mary" rocks so much.

Also currently spinning at the Lady's Love Lounge: Zap Mama.

~ the lady love

Holy Crap, Batman...

...I look exactly like my mother. I took this picture of her over Thanksgiving and was just now looking at it for the first time. I compared it to my mug shot and realized I am my mother's daughter.

Her (Mother)


Me (Daughter)

Tannenbaum

My first christmas tree. I got festive this year. Battery-operated electric light. Hell yeah.

Tannenbaum 2005

Actually, I lied. It's my second christmas tree. My first one was 9 years ago. Jenny (from the Alphabet Book series and, at one time, the love of my life) and I cut down a 7 ft. cedar tree on our college campus, strapped it to the top of her 1977 brown Chrysler Cordoba (which she turned into a semi-convertible by hacksawing the roof off - I shit you not), and took it back to the charming third story apartment I was renting downtown. We decorated the tree with ornaments made out of various metal scraps that Jenny had collected from the junkyard, stationed it in a 5-gallon bucket anchored by large rocks, and dressed it with a bed-sheet-turned-makeshift christmas tree skirt.

I remember one time this really dumb chick came over to my apartment with a friend of mine while the tree was up. The dumb chick sat on my couch, gazed at my tree, cocked her head to the side and asked, "Sooo was that, like, just a plant you had?"

I really didn't know how to respond. At first I thought she might be kidding untill I realized she wasn't. So I said, "Ummmm, no... it's a tree."

~ the lady love

Lady Love Sounds Off

The Good Wife article got me thinking about the feminist movement. I am very much a feminist. Feminism by definition is about the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes. I don't know how you could be a woman and not be a feminist, but I think the feminist movement as we know it often has a negative connotation that is not necessarily unwarranted. I don't think the feminist movement as it has evolved since the 1970s wholly serves women (note the word wholly). The movement tends to portray the idea that women can have it all and too often ignores an important message that with choice comes sacrifice. Likewise, I also think that it displaces responsiblity for one's choices and actions.

I hold certain beliefs that many would consider anti-feminist. I remember in a women's studies/literature class in college, I often found my opinions igniting heated debates with my professor and classmates. Then three years ago, I read Camille Paglia's Sex, Art and American Culture and was relieved to find my ideas validated. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that Ms. Paglia is often hailed as a feminist antichrist. Ha!

So how exactly is it that I believe feminism has let women down? By teaching us that we can have everything we want (if we want it): children, full time careers, husbands, independence... anything and everything our little hearts desire. Likewise, it tells us that we are equally entitled to the same rewards, professional advancement, etc., because our sex excepts us from being held to the same standards. To me, this logic is flawed. When we make a choice, aren't we also not choosing something else? And wouldn't true equality - not just the benefits - only exist if there was an even playing field?

Professionally speaking, is a man, a childless woman, and a mother entitled to the same professional advancement and compensation? Maybe. Maybe not. Obviously, performance is a key, but if the man and the childless woman outperform the woman with children because they work 10-12 hours a day, should there be any special consideration for the woman with children because she is a mother and can only put in 8 hours a day? In my opinion, absolutely not. Personal lifestyle choices do make for special treatment or allowances. Isn't it just as possible that a childless woman is sacrificing motherhood or a man is sacrificing time with his family because they make their careers priority?

I remember watching the movie G.I. Jane the first time. The most compelling thing about this movie for me was the Demi Moore's character insisted upon being held to the same standard as the other Navy SEALS in training. I have absolutely no problem with women serving in the military or even the special forces, but when it comes to special ops like the SEALS, should the standards be lowered to accommodate women? I don't think so. Sure, I understand that there are physiological difference between men and women that in some cases, like basic military service, should be accommodated, but aren't the higher standards of the SEALS in place to ensure the quality and integrity of this highly specialized group rather than a sexist, exclusionary tactic?

Demi Moore's character succeeded and achieved SEAL status, but it wasn't without sacrifice. She shaved her head (because her hair kept getting in the way). She physically transformed her body to such a degree that her performance paralleled the men's. And as a result of losing so much body fat, she ceased to menstruate.

My point is, if women want equality, then we should be held to the same standards as men. This does not mean, however, that we shouldn't recognize, respect, and celebrate the differences between men and women.

That's not the only way that the feminist movement has let women down. Women's lib has somehow erroneously freed us from taking responsibility for ourselves. Of course, rape and sexual harrassment are atrocious, but when is it criminal? Is it rape or just poor judgement when a girl goes upstairs by herself at a frat party with a drunk guy and takes off her clothes and gives him head and then he fucks her despite the fact that she says no to penetration? A typical feminist answer would be date rape. No means no, right? But shouldn't the girl be accountable for her own actions that may have precipitated the final act? Who is to say there was a clear understanding of what "no" meant? Could it be possible that under the circumstances the lines had been blurred between yes and no?

By no means am I saying that rape is a woman's own fault, but I think feminism has taught us that we can do whatever we want without any consequences. And when a woman's subjective lines have been crossed, then she's been victimized - no questions asked.

I recently told a close friend about my encounter with John. She was quite disturbed when I intimated how the incident turned sexual and expressed her concern that a line had been crossed. Indeed, I have had some reflective moments where I have acknowledged a certain level of physical force that bordered on questionable. But did he violate me? Yes and no. He didn't stop when I asked him to, but as I explained to my friend, I never once tried to leave. My pleas of "no", while genuine, were also born out of emotional confliction, not out of fear that he was going to hurt me or rape me. I was there willingly. I went to his room. I sat on the bed, and when he began to touch me, I didn't leave. And then I stayed for the next three hours.

Sexual harrassment is even harder to define. Girls have adopted the notion that they should be able to dress provocatively but a man dare not comment on her exposed cleavage. It's okay to flirt and to play the coquette, but a man is crossing the line when her behavior elicits sexual commentary from him. Of course, it's only not okay when she doesn't want it.

Also, is it sexual harrassment, especially when verbal, if a woman doesn't establish her boundaries? I don't think so. Sexual harrassment claims are only legitimate in my eyes when a woman has clearly expressed that a man's behavior towards her is inappropriate. Yet, Anita Hill became the Rosa Parks of feminism when she accused Clarence Thomas of sexual harrassment (coincidentally another topic that Ms. Paglia has been very outspoken about).

Was Anita Hill sexually harrassed by Clarence Thomas? I don't doubt that he said and did the things she claimed, but were her claims of "harrassment" justified if she didn't stand up for herself? To my knowledge, she never reported it or pursued any action to stop the alleged harrassment. And was there really any recourse 10 years later when she finally had the balls to speak up and acknowledge that she didn't like the things he said to her?

I guess what I am trying to say is that, despite the progress that feminism has afforded women, feminism as we know it today attempts to create a caveat that makes women the perpetual victim when it's convenient for them. But it's a delusion to think that equality of the sexes means a life free of consequences or compromise.

~ the lady love

The Good Wife

I wouldn't have done very well had I been born before my time, unless of course I had been born a man. Check out this artice from Good Housekeeping circa 1955... (the underlines do not belong to me)

The Good Wife's Guide

Whoa.

~ the lady love

I Can't Paint

I remember once when I was eight, a kid brought a pencil drawing to school that her cousin (who shares my name) had done. I don't remember specifically what the drawing was, but I remember that it was quite astonishing. All the other kids couldn't stop gushing about it and kept paying compliments to me for my wonderful drawing. I repeatedly said that I didn't do it to all the kids dishing the accolades, until finally I got caught up in the misdirected praise and just started saying "thank you" as if it were my own. Of course, I was soon found out and made a fool of. The owner of the drawing set them all straight by telling them that her cousin by the same name was the actual artist. That was the last time I took credit for somebody else's work. I was so painfully emabarrassed that even still today if I work on a collaborative project, I am sure to only take credit for my personal contribution.

I've always been an admirer of art, but more importantly, I've always wanted to create it. I've always craved the self gratification of manifesting my ideas into something more tangible, and with equal relish, the affirmation and validation that comes from other people appreciating my art.

A few years ago I unsuccessfully tried my hand at painting. I had beautiful visions in my mind that sadly would not translate to the canvas. My skills were grossly deficient. So instead I take pictures. Not being able to make it happen by my own hand does not limit me from actualizing my artistic vision.

As a photographer, my creativity gets stunted at times, and I just stop producing anything (likewise, it happens in my writing as well). I find myself caught up in some sort of inner conflict about art. To me, a true artist is one who creates versus one who regurgitates. It's kind of like the difference between Britney Spears and PJ Harvey (among a bevy of other differences, of course). While both may have a natural talent for music, one is a performer and the other is a true artist.

That's how I feel as a photographer. Sure, I can take a pretty picture of a church, but what gives me a real sense of accomplishment and pride is when my photography is more conceptual. When it's art. More often than not, my photography is not art. Sure, it's nicely framed and composed and captured from a unique perspective, but it's not what I really want it to be.

Lately I've been creatively stagnant. I haven't shot anything in a couple months now. I keep wondering when the inspiration will resurface. In the meantime, I appease myself by looking back at the images I've created in the past year and remind myself that it will come back to me when I am ready. Here's how I remind myself:

The Alphabet Book Series
Lonesome Cowgirl
Dancing Barefoot (ode to Patti Smith)
Broken Heart
Untitled

~ the lady love

I Am In Love...

...with the movie Crash. I cried A Lot. Both times. I do not typically watch movies twice in a row, nor do I typically cry at movies. Seriously, it's one the best things I've seen in a really long time. I actually tried to go see it a few months ago in the theater but only sat through the first 5 minutes. The projector was so rickety that the clanking sound coming from it was interfering with the whole movie watching experience, so I had to ask for my money back.

I love it. I love it. I love it.

~ the lady loves it

Over Again

It's over again. I knew this fling we were having wouldn't last long. It couldn't. He is toxic for me, evidenced by the fact that I exercise very poor judgement when it comes to him. I got some really good sex out of the deal though and the depression fucked right out of me, though.

I've never really said what happened with him, and honestly, I am not interested in dedicating any more of my time or energy to him by telling the story now. Don't get me wrong. I made my fair share of mistakes, occasionally ignoring some blood red flags. In the end, though, the breakdown came more from his end, I believe.

I got reminded this past weekend of just how bad he is for me and realized that there was no way in hell I was going to repeat a cycle of any kind.

Bye Bye Johnny Boy.

~ the lady love

Today's Playlist

I'm working at a client's office today. It's a challenging project (and by challenging I mean pain in the ass). I'm doing page layouts for an institutional signing manual in ADOBE ILLUSTRATOR. What's wrong with this picture?

1) You just don't do manuals in Illustrator for oh so many reasons. You do them in Quark or InDesign.

2) I do not know how to use Illustrator.

Hey man, I told the client I didn't know what I was doing with this program, but they were confident in my ability to figure it out. Okey dokey. Surprisingly, I'm doing pretty well. I know enough about so many other programs that I kinda get it, but it's still a difficult program. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGH. Plus, did I mention that you just don't do this kind of work using this program? Yeah, I thought so.

My saving grace: I'm plugged in to a mellow mix of delicious music (yes, I do rock out sometimes, too, but today is chill).

Current playlist:

1) Lifelong Fling - Over the Rhine
2) Essence - Lucinda Williams
3) Speaking Confidentially - Cowboy Junkies
4) Precious Thing - Telegram
5) I Cry Alone - The Black Keys
6) I'm gonna Crawl - Led Zeppelin
7) It's A Man's World - James Brown
8) The Thrill Is Gone - Aretha Franklin
9) Malt Liquor - Hope for a Golden Summer
10) Woman King - Iron & Wine
11) Sunday (the day before my birthday) - Moby
12) No Me Llores Mas - Marc Ribot & Los Cubanos Postizos
13) Sandpaper Kisses - Martina Topley Bird
14) Feelin' Good - Nine Simone (Joe Claussell Remix from the Verve Remixed album)
15) Riding - Bonnie "Prince" Billy
16) Burn that Broken Bed - Calexico and Iron & Wine
17) Let's Dance - M. Ward
18) I Will (No Man's Land) - Radiohead
19) Mil Besos - Nanci Griffith
20) I Don't Want to be That Man - Ollabelle
21) He Lays in the Reins - Calexico and Iron & Wine
22) Firefly - Over the Rhine
23) No More My Lawd - Ollabelle
24) In the Name of the Father - U2
25) Bang Bang - Nancy Sinatra
26) Grandma's Hands - Bill Withers
27) Before Today - Everything But The Girl
28) La Belle Et Le Bad Boy - MC Solaar
29) Pulse - Ani Difranco

I rather think I have damn good taste in music.

Peace Out,
the lady love

It's Good To Be Loved

I've got some right killer friends. Grace is one of them. She saved my ass tonight in a big way. I am a very lucky girl.

~ the lady love

I Look So Very Indie Rock

Writer's Block

(obligatory self portrait dedicated to R80o)

This One Slays Me

Posting songs to this here little blog is becoming pattern behavior, but music is really important to me. This one is from another lovely local band called Hope for a Golden Summer (who I fondly refer to as Hope for a Golden Shower). I've had a love affair with the song Malt Liquor for a few years now. My favorite part comes about halfway through the song when she sings, "Some days I wear black and the next day baby blue..." It gets me every time.

~ the lady love

I Don't Like Being in Love

Grace sent this to me. She said it reminded her of me.


I Don't Like Being in Love

Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you're 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don't know where.
And worse - with whom?

I don't care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.

Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon.
Scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.

Brain a world of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.

~ Sancra Cisneros

Dirty Little Secret

This thing I'm doing with him is beginning to feel like my dirty little secret. We've seen each other three times in the past week, but I don't really want anybody to know we're hanging out again. So I turn off my phone or ignore my calls, I dodge questions from him about social engagements...

I've got to figure out what I'm doing here soon.

~ the lady love

See What's Become of Me

Thursday night I dragged my ass out to see Telegram and meet up with Phillip, and man, am I glad that I did. Great, great show. The boys really rocked it out. Afterwards, I headed over to the Highlander for a couple games of pool, then back to Trista's house for a minute.

On my way home, my phone rang. I recognized the number as that of The One Who Broke My Heart despite having deleted his number out of my phonebook 10 months ago. Uncharacteristically, I answered the phone thinking that there was something wrong for him to be calling at 2am on a Thursday night.

"Hello?"

"Love, it's John. Look, I know I'm not your favorite person right now, but I need your help. Please."

"What's up?"

"I've had a couple drinks and started my drive home and realized that I've had one too many to be driving. Can I please come over?"

"No, I don't want you at my place, but pull over and I'll come pick you up and take you home. Take your keys out of your ignition. I'll be there in a minute."

"Thank you so much. Thank you."

I picked him up and took him home. Clearly, my mistake was going inside, but we were talking and the conversation was honest and amiable. He couldn't believe I had deleted his number (I told him I had): "That's so permanent. If I delete a number, then it's like I'm deleting the person from my life. I thought we were different than that."

(Yeah, and I thought "I love you" meant "I love you" and "you give me everything I want and need" meant "you give me everything I want and need.")

Next thing I know and the very last thing I expected, I'm in the middle of SexFest2005. It was really great sex, but our sex was always hot. Coincidentally, this encounter was one day shy of a year since our last go-around and, essentially, the end of our year-long affair.

I'm feeling pretty emotionally solid, which is a bit surprising considering I never healed wholly from the staggering heartbreak he caused me. I guess I created a barrier between my mind, body and soul that night, though indeed it would be nice to have a relationship that honors the unity of these things instead of dividing part of me against the rest of myself. On the flip side, the realistic/practical/experienced side of me doesn't believe there can be unity between body, mind and soul when it comes to sex and men. Either I have to compartmentalize or I set myself up for disappointment.

John actually said to me the other night that he wanted to "make love" to me all night and all through the next day - that he could stay like "this" forever. How much he missed me. How much he wanted me. How sexy he thought I was. How much he wanted to go down on me. How often he thought about it. How much he wanted me to have pleasure ("I want to make you come a million times before I do" or "Just relax and enjoy this - don't worry about me"). How much he loved to be inside me. How much he "loved sharing this with me - sharing each other."

If I believed or took to heart anything he said that night, then I would be a mess right now. But I'm not a mess right now because I shut myself off from my emotions. I knew tomorrow would be different and that what he was saying was fleeting.

Legitimately, I tried to resist. I told him "no" over and over and pushed him away from me and off me and repeatedly pulled his hand out of my pants. But then he tore down my pants, saying he wanted to "taste me until I came" and I said, "No, no, no". Then he flipped me over and pried apart my legs because he is bigger and stronger than me, and I couldn't help but give in to the pleasure of it all. My heart and mind were saying no, but my body was saying yes.

When he called me last night, as expected I could sense a complete and utter detachment in his voice like he felt nothing of the sort he expressed just 12 hours before. That switch had unsurprisingly been turned right back off. But this time, only my tired body has to heal and not my broken heart.

~ the lady love

Seen Around Town

I almost took flight from Atlanta three years ago for Seattle. I literally had all the arrangements made - all but having the moving truck packed. A friend tearfully begged me on his knees to stay an extra year and move in with him. I conceded easily. We found a lovely bungalow in Candler Park that felt very adult-like, and we lived there for a year. After our year was up, we decided to live separately again, and we both moved into different lofts in Midtown. Another year passed. I stayed put, and my friend moved to Fort Lauderdale, leaving me behind, which I found somewhat ironic.

Almost another year has zipped by now, and I'm wondering if and when I will ever leave this city.

To be fair, I didn't stay exclusively for my friend. He just made it easy. In fact, the planned move was part of a series of life changes I had made: I exited a 5-year long relationship that had run its course, I quit my job and began freelancing, and I started taking better care of myself the way I should. By the time the move came 'round, I was quite happy with my life. I didn't need to run away to the other side of the country.

One of the most difficult parts of making the decision to move, then and now, is the thought of abandoning the network of family and friends that I've built here and starting over again from scratch. Yet, at times, it's the exact reason why I want to leave. There is an undeniable appeal that comes with the type of anonymity that I can no longer enjoy in this place. For living in city of substantial size, I always seem to run into someone I know everywhere I go - even in the most random or obscure places.

A perfect example: a recent Friday night I took myself out to dinner. I've been in retreat-mode as of late, so I wanted to be by myself (as much as I could while being in public). I happened upon a quaint little Italian restaurant called DaVinci's tucked behind a Cuban place on Ponce de Leon. Perfect.

I walked into the dimly lit eatery to be received by a bartendar stationed behind an understated bar with a scanty five bar stools. Two patrons claimed the lone high-top table in the place. I asked for a menu and promptly ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Yes. This is exactly what I was looking for.

While I was gazing at the menu for a ridiculously long time, I heard a voice boom in my direction, "Don't I know you?"

Looking up, I said, "You're Dave, right?" He was one of the two patrons in the place besides myself.

"I sure am, and you're Love. How's it going?"

I'll save you from the formalities of the hey-how-ya-doin' banter, but unbelievable! Here I thought I was safe. I didn't have to be me. Wrong. Dave proceeded to engage me in resistant conversation throughout my entire meal. It turned out alright, though.

At the same time, I can't help but relish the fact that I've built myself a small town here. Atlanta is a decent place to be. There's a lot of good stuff here. Sure, it's stained by its own brand of bullshit, but what city isn't?

I don't know what it is I want to run away from. Maybe it's just myself that I can't escape. I think mostly, though, I just want to escape the me that everybody else thinks that I am - the person who carries the conversation or always has something funny or witty or entertaining to say. But that's not always me. And you know what? That's okay.

~ the lady love

If you live in Atlanta...

... and happen upon this here little blog, come to Eddie's Attic this Thursday, Oct. 27 for some killer live music from Kitty Snyder and Telegram. (Click to hear music samples)

~ the lady love

I dig this song.

I can listen to this song over and over again. I especially like when it kicks in real good. I was a lucky enough girl for these guys to play at my 30th birthday party.

~ the lady love

Burning Down The What?

Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I was awakened at 3:45 a.m. by the smell of smoke. The first thing that ran through my head was, "Fuck. The building is on fire." I laid there for a second thinking about a plan of action. First, I decided that if I couldn't get out my door, I would climb into my loft and out the window onto the roof and work my around to the back side of the building where I could jump to the ground and still survive. (I've watched too much Alias).

Second, I thought about the things I should try to save: my cat, my camera, my computer, and my coat. (Curious alliteration here, eh?).

Third, I thought I oughtta check to make sure the smoke/fire wasn't coming from my place first. Oh yeah, and I should probably put some clothes on.

I got up, took a gander, and determined that it was definitely coming from somewhere else. Good. If the building goes up in flames, I didn't want to be the cause of setting it ablaze. I promptly got dressed, walked to my door and felt to see if it was hot. It was cold. As I walked through the halls towards the front door of the building, I could hear fire truck sirens screaming outside. I flung open the front door to see five fire engines lined up along my street in front of my building as well as a bevy of po-lice. Smoke filled the air, and I watched the firemen run into the building next door. I waited and watched for just a few minutes in true gawker style, then one by one the fire trucks and cops pulled away 'til they were all gone. I was sufficiently confused.

Where was the fire? The driver of a car that got trapped between the blocked off intersections on either end of my block told me, "They couldn't find the fire. It's not here. It's somewhere else."

Okey-dokey.

I don't know which incident is more bizarre: this one here or the one from a few weeks ago. I was awakened at 1:30 a.m. by what I thought was an aircraft (helicopter) about to crash into my apartment. Instead, it just circled right past my window with a beam spotlight on for probably 20 minutes. I was rather annoyed as I had had a difficult time falling to sleep that night and was subjected to the obnoxious sound of a loud helicopter hanging out right above my head for what seemed like an eternity.

I almost went outside to see what was going on, but then it occurred to me that if a police helicopter is circling my building at 1:30 a.m. with its beam spotlight on, then there was probably some crazed weapon-toter outside, so checking it out wouldn't necessarily be the smartest idea. The next day I found out that there was a transvestite prostitute on my corner holding people up a gunpoint.

There's some strange stuff that goes on right outside my door, and I don't even know about it.

~ the lady love

Five Things...

...I really like (in no particular order):

1) Ace Pear Cider
2) Eminem
3) Buffy the Vampire Slayer
4) Good Lighting
5) Lists

I Need a Shower.

Thanks to my savvy internet sleuth skills - okay, really my site traffic meter - my readership seems to be on the rise. But it's funny. All of a sudden, I'm a lot more self-conscience about wanting to say something worth reading or at least something that doesn't make me sound quite so pathetic. It's kind of ironic since the whole point behind this here little blog was to not sling contrived. Yet I find myself reading what I write lately and thinking, "I sound so pathetic", so I delete it. Either that, or I sit at my keyboard and strain from verbal constipation. So fuck it. I feel pretty pathetic right now, so why should I pretend like I don't?

1) I am depressed
2) I have never fully recovered from a broken heart last year
3) I have friends all around me yet I still feel lonely
4) I am not taking proper care of myself
5) I do not go out much anymore
6) I am directionless
7) I fantasize about walking away from my life and working in a gas station in Wyoming, and I've never even been to Wyoming
8) I'm tired of rolling with the punches
9) I feel guilty and self-indulgent whining about it when I know I could have it a lot worse. I mean, there are people in the world who don't even have the luxury of confronting their emotional selves because, by the accident of birth, their lives are about mere survival.
10) I do not feel like this all the time, but the feeling has been growing bigger lately
11) I know that it is not permanent, but it is up to me to fix it
12) I would like to experience a relationship with a man who treats me right. Maybe it would be more accurate to say a man who isn't still a little boy emotionally even though I don't even require much emotional intensity.
13) I am not joyless but there is an underlying constant heavy that I do not portray socially
14) I don't want to be a buzzkill because I'm not too fond of buzzkills myself
15) This is not me
16) But it is me
17) I've been here before
18) I've gotten out of this place before
19) In theory it's nice to not have expecations, but it is much harder in practice if you have standards (of any kind)
20) I hate television but find myself watching anyway
21) 17 out of 20 things on this list start with "I", the other two have "me" in them, and number 19 says "you", but I really mean "me". Number 21 has both "I" and "me" in it.

~ the lady love

Priceless

For some quality reading since I don't have shit to say, check this out.

A Funny Little Side Note

A friend confided to me over lunch today that he was going to smoke the ganja tonight for the first time ever. When we were parting ways, I asked him to call tomorrow and let me know how it was getting high. "Shhhh! Could you keep your voice down please?" to which I replied, "One day you're gonna get that stick all the way out of your ass."

~ the lady love

Unfortunately, for reasons beyond our control, we are no longer able to post our friend's final writings about his death. I'm sorry. I will say that he always told his friends about how evil and opportunistic his mother was, which comprised a portion of his writings. In fact, up until about a month ago at his father's funeral, he hadn't spoken to her in over a decade. He always said she was a pathological liar with a heart that was cold and black. According to him, she was also very physically abusive to him. He acknowledged that most of his longlived emotional issues stemmed from his relationship with her and the abuse she rendered.

Born (click to listen)

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

Pour me a glass of wine
Talk deep into the night
Who knows what we'll find

Intuition, deja vu
The holy ghost haunting you
Whatever you got
I don't mind

Put your elbows on the table
I'll listen long as I am able
There's nowhere I'd rather be

Secret fears, the supernatural
Thank God for this new laughter
Thank God the joke's on me

We've seen the landfill rainbow
We've seen the junkyard of love
Baby it's no place for you and me

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

~ Over the Rhine (recommended: click to hear)

Dealing in the Aftermath

I received a comment last night on my blog entries regarding my friend who recently died. The poster asked me to please remove his name from the site. In anger and a state of impulse, I used Steve's full name as a title of an entry, yet later removed it of my own volition. Nevertheless, google was turning up my site as a top result when his name was entered, and the original post with my friend's full name was showing up when you select the "cached" option. This poster was concerned about his students performing web searches and coming across my site.

I temporarily pulled my site til I figured out what I wanted to do. I kinda didn't care - it is what it is, right? That is, life and death. We all gotta figure it out some time. I never violated Steve's trust as a friend, even after his death, but am I violating it by writing my own thoughts about him and the details of the suicide? I tend to think not.

Steve was writing a 'book' on his own suicide that he'd been working on for a long time. The last time he wrote in it was in June, I believe. His birthday was in June. A couple days after his birthday he told me that he was planning on doing 'it' then - on his birthday. He wanted his suicide note published, so his "inner circle" as he called us - that is, his self-made family, has decided to publish it online. It's what he wanted, and it has a lot more details about him and his life than my three blog entries.

As far the request to remove Steve's name from my site (which I had already done long before this request was made) and the search engine cache, I wrote him the following letter:

Dear Friend,

I am sorry for your loss, too. I temporarily removed my webpage after your request to think about what I wanted to do. My webpage is now back up, although it looks like since I took it down, you don't find it on google anymore. Nonetheless, I had a very close relationship with Steve, and I strongly feel that he wouldn't care about the comments I made on my site, and I talked to his other closest friend, and he very much agreed. The bottom line is, it is the truth, and we were Steve's family.

We (what he liked to call his "inner circle" - his self-made family) have also made the decision to publish Steve's suicide note. He made it very clear that he wanted it out there for public consumption, so we are going to honor his wishes. My blog does not reveal anything that he doesn't already reveal himself. If his students come across it, so be it. It's what he wanted.

To answer your question about the cause, please take comfort in knowing that this is simply what he wanted. He had no fear of death or suicide, and he simply was not content in this life. Death and suicide were something he had wanted and thought about for many, many years. He was a dynamic, charismatic person, so it can be difficult to understand why he would take his own life. As much as he was these things, he was also very unhappy and struggled with life daily. To be honest, this was inevitable. I loved him a great deal as he loved me back, and I am sad and angry at him that he is gone, but he didn't want to be here. He just had a very different outlook on life than most of us.

I hope this helps shed some light on 'why'.

Take care,
the lady love

Acting Out

I came back home today for the first time since Sunday when I was here for only about 30 minutes - just long enough to find out if it was for real. I pulled up to my gate, and Steve's car was right there at the very front - the first thing you see when you pull in. I guess the property manager moved it there. It's the best place for it I suppose until things are figured out. It was just a jolt to my system - it had originally been moved to the parking deck next door out of sight.

As I got out of my car, I noticed a handwritten note secured under the windshield wiper on his car. I walked over and read it:

"If I or any of your neighbors parked beside you, we would block you in. Please park correctly. Others would like to park near the gate as well. Next time myself or your neighbors have agreed that we will block you in. About five of us have discussed this. Thanks for understanding." ~Alphabet Lofts

The note was signed as the name of the loft building and not by the name of the writer, which bugged the shit out of me.

I don't know if I'm being irrational, but it sent rage through me. I wrote a reply note and pinned both my note and the original note to the bulletin board in the lobby next to the mailboxes. My notes reads:

"To whomever wrote this note above and stuck it to the windshield of the Lexus parked right inside the gate:
The owner of the Lexus died on Saturday night and cannot move it. Feel free to block it in. And the next time you want to leave a note like this for a neighbor, at least have the balls to sign your own name. Thanks for understanding. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I think I know the jerk that wrote the note. She's this manipulative jerk that has pulled some other stunts around the building. I specifically know of her blackmailing another neighbor - yeah, I'm serious. Point is, if you're going to leave a nasty note like this, at least have the balls to identify yourself.

In my opinion, a more appropriate note would have been along the lines of, "Hi neighbor ~ the way your car is parked prevents other folks from being able to park around you without blocking you in. We were hoping you could park at an angle - it's the most efficient use of space for our lot. Thanks, and feel free to come talk to me about it. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I guess I'm just sensitive right now because of the personal tragedy that I'm privy to and that this 'anonymous' note (yet under the guise of "Alphabet Lofts") was written to my dead friend.

~ the lady love

I knew that Fuck would kill himself. I just didn't expect it to be Saturday night. Things had been going really well for him. On Friday night, we laughed and talked and played games and talked about him hitting his stride. I had told him before that I thought he was bipolar and perhaps even schizophrenic. He said he had considered that before.

He was a genius. A biologist with his PhD. A college professor. He was dark and negative. Paranoid. Handsome. Hilarious. Fun. Dangerous. Depressing. Exhausting. Kind. Generous. A very good friend. Dramatic. Charismatic. Creative. An artist. A pain in the ass.

I just finished looking through his 40-page suicide letter, which he began years ago. There was nothing really new there. Apparently, I had the most intimate knowledge of him. He selectively disseminated information about himself to people, and I guess he chose to tell me the most since, in the aftermath, I'm the one who has the most comprehensive view of him.

The coroner told me they wouldn't have the toxocology report for two weeks. I told her what he died from and what cocktail of drugs they would find in his system: morphine, percoset, vicadan, xanax, syroquil, marijauna, alcohol, welbutrin. I know how he did it. He used the morphine. Probably took the entire bottle. Besides, that was really all he had enough of to kill himself.

What causes me the most grief is all the calls and text messages from him. That he pulled me in at the last minute. It's hard not to question myself - feel guilty - like he reached out to me and I didn't help him. It would be a little easier to swallow if I just found out he was dead, but knowing that he asked me to come get him... I knew he would eventually commit suicide. I just wish he wouldn't have pulled me into it. He knew I couldn't come - I was working and I had a crying woman in my car that I was comforting. I couldn't drop everything I was doing to rush to him. To find out if this time he was for real.

He was for real. Bastard.

Died Last Night

My good friend (and neighbor) killed himself last night. I was photographing a wedding reception. At one point, I picked up my phone and had a missed call from him and a text message. At 10:49 he wrote, "I need your help." That could mean anything at all, and though it didn't suggest urgency, I called him. He didn't answer. I left a message saying that I was at the wedding and didn't have my phone on me. I got his message and if he called back and I didn't answer, it was because I wasn't near my phone, but I'd be checking my messages.

30 minutes later, I had another missed call from him and another text message. At 11:19 he wrote, "Drunk. Depressed. Going to bed. Call if light is on."

I had plans to sleep over at a friend's that night, so I wasn't going back home. No big deal, he was going to bed and nothing seemed terribly wrong.

At 12:26 a.m., I got another text message from him. It read, "Come get me I'm dead." I called him twice immediately but he didn't answer.

At 12:30 a.m., I got another text message that read, "sorry". I called him again. He didn't answer. I texted him, "What's going on?" No reply.

At 1:00 a.m., I texted him again and said, "Haven't heard from you. Hope ur ok." No reply.

Some time after 12:30 a.m. he overdosed on morphine and was found dead in his bed this morning.

The Lady Love Makes The News

I would first like to say that, as I write this post, the Golden Girls are on. The girls are worried about Rose being addicted to painkillers. A very important episode with a very important message: drugs just make some people more tolerable

So, I was in Creative Loafing this week. It's weird. I haven't been in the paper since I was in high school. I recently reconnected with this music journalist I know because of a professional gig. Late one night we got to talking and he asked me to be the subject of this recurring, inconsequential piece in the music section. It was all very spontaneous, and it had to be done by the next morning. I said sure. I pretty much had free range with the topic, though I ended up going with something he threw out upfront: I had to come up with five things bands should not do.

It was fun and came very naturally. I gave him my list, and he wrote a little intro profile and punctuated each of my points. The next day, I asked him to send it to me - what he turned in to be published. He told me that he never let people see the articles before they ran. From his experience, people inevitably don't like something and want to make a change. But for me, he would make an exception. Of course. Of course. I wouldn't have any gripes.

But of course. Of course. There was something I didn't like. Two little, very powerful words that I felt portrayed me as intimidating and unapproachable. "Bitingly caustic." It wouldn't have been a big deal other than the fact that I was specifically being identified as the publicity & promotions rep for a local club who is very image-conscious at the moment.

I never aked him to change it. I just couldn't do it. I already felt like one of those women who say, "Does this make my ass look big? Tell me. I promise I won't get mad." But then they get mad anyway. What can I say? I'm a cliche.

No, I couldn't. I did, however, passionately communicate my apprehension about the image being projected and why it mattered. Beyond that, if he wanted to change it, it was up to him. Graciously, he obliged me and did a little editing, though I'm sure he regretted ever making the exception for me. I basically reinforced what he already knew. Still, I was very thankful for the consideration.

The end result:

REAL LIFE TOP FIVE: THE LADY LOVE

The Lady Love is the new publicity and promotions rep at ... She sorts through tons of band press kits and promo packs daily. Here, she offers some constructive criticism and advice for hopeful - and, in some cases, hopeless - musicians.

1) Avoid John Mayer "Do not drop the John Mayer bomb. Every musician in this city has either played with him, opened for him, shared the stage with him, or sounds like him. Sorry, but it doesn't make you special."

2) Don't Be A Name Dropper "Do not drop more than 10 names of bands you've opened for in your bio. It's tacky and implies you'll never be more than an opening act."

3) Don't Get A "Heart" On "Please, please, please do not ever say during a performance, 'This next song comes straight from the heart.' It's tired. 'This next song comes straight from the groin would be better - or at least funnier.'"

4) Stay At Least Semi-Sober "Don't get so drunk on stage that you can't play your own music. It's a bad sign when your fans start asking the venue for their money back."

5) It Shouldn't Matter If There Are 3 or 3000 "Don't get pissy if only three people come to your show. Having a bad attitude on stage due to 'low voter turnout' will only alienate the three paying fans you actually do, or did, have."

---

That's all folks.

~ the lady love

Charmed But Near Dead

I received a message from a reader this past weekend who told me, "You haven't posted in your blog in over a week! I'm going through withdrawal."

Then, I got a note from a fellow Flickrite who said, "Hey, i don't mean to add any undue pressure or anything, but there are some of us out here who always look forward to seeing your new photos. So i think you should post something soon. Is that rude? I don't mean to be rude."

People, you do flatter me so. Wow. But please be patient with me. Seriously, I am drowning in work right now. I feel like I'm chained to my apartment and computer. Nothing would make me happier than to have the time to write and take pictures.

Don't give up on me. I haven't given up on you.

~ the lady love

Brokedown but at least my hair looks good

This past weekend I broke down alongside the interstate. My passenger side rear tire blew. It was a hot afternoon, so I picked a really good day to wear a sweatshirt.

I've probably had five flats this year. But this time, I had no spare tire. The last flat I had was when my donut blew while I was driving to the tire store to replace a flat tire. Go figure. Yeah, the rim was bent on the donut, so they wanted to charge me $300 to replace it. I said no. If I break down with a flat, it will cost me less to get my car towed than to pay that absurd amount of money for a donut. I'll go to the junkyard and pay $15 for a spare from a wrecked car. Just give me the rubber from my old tire, and I'll keep it in my trunk.

Well, that was nine months ago and I never made it to the junkyard, but I did make an instant little adventure for myself when I got that flat tire on Sunday.

At first I forgot. I pulled off to the side of the highway and went about my way to changing the tire. I popped the trunk and - Oh Shit! - I don't have a spare.

I had to make a call. With 30 minutes to bide until my rescue, I decided to make myself useful. I jacked my car up with a creaky jack and put two big scratches on my car while doing it. That's okay; the war wounds will give it character I told myself. I jacked the thing all the way up before I realized I hadn't broken the lug nuts, so I cranked her back down. To break the lug nuts, I had to climb up and balance myself on the wrench and give it a few bounces with my entire body weight, so I'm lucky I didn't break my ankles or my neck given my tendencies toward falling. I jacked it back up and pulled my tire off just as my official help arrived. I tossed the flat tire and the spare rubber from my trunk into the truck bed, and we made our way up to the first service station off the next exit. For $15 bucks they put the spare rubber on and balanced it. All in all, it could have been a lot worse, but I think I'll be locating myself a real, functional spare tire asap for future breakdowns.

While I was stranded alongside the interstate fixing my tire, I had a few people pull off to see if I needed help. The first was a single, older white woman, perhaps in her late 50s. We chatted for a minute, and she went on her way. The second was three hispanic men, who got out of their car and asked if I needed help. I said thank you very much for stopping, but I was fine and had somebody on the way. They left. The third was a black couple. The man got out of the car and walked up. He said they were driving down the other side of the interstate when they saw me. That means they got off at an exit and turned around to come back up the other side of the interstate - just to help me. Wow, I said. Thank you so much but here's my help pulling up now. Thank you again. Thank you.

Thank you to these people who thought I might be in need and stopped to help. All of you. But in the 30 minutes I was standing on the side of the interstate, tell me, where were my white brothers? I just found it somewhat ironic that the only help that was not extended to me was from a caucasian male, but how many of them do you think passed me? Just wondering.

I may have been broken down, but at least my hair looked good. It's getting so long. I figured the length softens me up a bit, you know, from my otherwise hardened look. Haha.

After my breakdown, later that night with a foxy hairdo:

When Lady Love Became Your Majesty
So, I called my phone company today to increase my minutes plan. I've been going over my minutes every month, especially since I became the publicist for a local music venue, so I needed to upgrade. When I called in I was in quite a playful mood, and the service rep started out with "Thank you for calling t-mobile. How can I put a smile on your face today?" I started laughing and replied, "Well, I guess just asking worked, eh?" She asked if she may call me by my first name and I said, "Well, what else would you call me?" She replied that would call me whatever I wanted her to call me. I said, "How about 'your majesty'? Will you call me 'your majesty'?" She said sure and proceeded to call me "your majesty" throughout the rest of the call. Now that's what I call service.

~the lady love

You Know You Live In The Ghetto When...

...you flip on the tv and see your neighborhood crack whore getting busted on Cops.

~ the lady love

I Take It Back

I would like to offer a complete and utter retraction of the following letter sent in January 2005 to somebody who didn't deserve it then and now realize never deserved me at all.

Dear John ~

I'm glad that you said what I finally needed to hear. It pierced me like a thousand daggers, but I can handle the truth much better than half truths, which swirl in my head like mad confusion. Until today I wasn't able to let go of the hope that you could see me the way I saw you.

My eyes brighter. My smile bigger. My cold nights warmer. My step lighter. My body electric. Before you came, they already were. Bright. Big. Warm. Light. Electric. You gave me life superlative. Thank you.

Love goes wrong. Life goes on. Alliteration abounds. Notice how a cycle is round? I got while the getting was good. But too bad so sad. The getting was never meant to be had.

Im damaged for sure, but not for good. It's hearbreaking that you didn't want what I wanted to give. But please hold on to it. It was meant for you. But until I can stop mourning the loss of what it could've been, I can't appreciate it for what it was. It may take sixty seven years. Right now sixty seven lifetimes may not even be enough.

I saw angry oceans to charter. Mountains to marvel. Laughter to stir belly aches. Conversations to brandish headaches. Tears to drown heartaches. Big skies and dirt roads tucked behind billows of our dust.

I caught a glimpse. It was lovely.

I hope you can learn to love yourself as much as you deserve to. As much as I do. Maybe then you'll be able to embrace it when it comes to you from the outside. It doesn't make life. It just makes life sweeter.

~ love

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

I get asked a certain question A Lot. People have a hard time discerning whether I'm straight or gay. When it comes to my sexuality, I guess there's a big dangling question mark hanging over my head. The question mark does not belong to me; it belongs to them. I know what I am.

The question doesn't bother me, you know, whether I'm straight or gay. I could sling pretentious with the "why does it matter to you what my sexuality is" attitude, which in a way, I believe it shouldn't matter to anyone else unless he or she is trying to get into my pants. Ideally, yeah, it would be nice to live in a world where we don't label each other, because most of us don't fit snugly into any one box anyway. But I understand the need for people to do it - to want to figure me out by conveniently placing me into a category they're comfortable with. Once people think they understand you, then they don't have to fear you. And instead of being irritated, I look at it as an opportunity to break down the pre-often-mis-conceptions. It only really starts to bug me when people can't eventually shed the labels and see me as just a person.

Case in point: my former roommate Elle. At the time I lived with Elle, I was in a relationship with a woman. Without fail, Elle would refer to me as her "lesbian roommate Leah". That's how she would even introduce me to her friends and acquaintances. "This is my lesbian roommate Leah." God, that used to make me so mad. I was being instantly defined by the fact that my private, sexual relationship was with a woman. Like my sexuality was my identity. Hardly.

For a long time, it perplexed me why the question seemed to bubble out of people's mouths so quickly upon meeting me. But I know why now. I'm quite feminine, so people at first think "straight". But, I speak my mind. I don't hold back. I don't need the attention of a man to affirm me. So when I don't act as expected, people think "not straight?" Hmmm. And that's when the questions start to roll.

So how do I answer it?

Sometimes I simply go with "both".

I am sexual. I can be turned on by a man or a woman. I don't get wrapped up in the packaging. Sex is sex. Sex is pleasure. And if sex were purely for procreation, then we wouldn't do it for recreation.

Sure, sex is definitely different between a man and a woman and a woman and a woman - in more ways than one. But ultimately, a man can give me an orgasm, and so can a woman. They both have. So does that make me straight or gay? I guess it makes me both. Ultimately, our sexuality is literally defined by sex. Who we have it with (even if we're just having it in our minds). But sex doesn't define intimacy nor does it define love. Strangely, though, it seems to enhance both intimacy and love, with both a man and a woman.

When I was with Her for five years, I never wished she was a man. I never felt guilty or ashamed or unsure. It just felt right. And at the time, I could have been with her for as far as I could see. When she walked into that room for the very first time, not even knowing her name, I knew she did it for me. Whatever 'it' was; she did it. And she kept on doing it the more I got to know her, until I Really got to Know Her. Then she did it for another five years. Then we grew apart just like people do sometimes.

After Her, there were other hims and hers, perhaps a few more hims than hers. But never any Hims or Hers, except maybe one who really wasn't.

So there's usually a followup question. Which do I prefer? Men or women?

I prefer both. But if we're gonna split hairs, then men. I just do. I am more immediately physically sexually chemically attracted to men. For me, there's something about the idea of two people mutually experiencing the act and pleasure of sex exactly at the same time. Meaning, the most basic physical pleasure that is being given is being directly received back as the most basic physical pleasure. But fucking is where it's at for me. It's what I like most about sex, though it's not the only thing I like. Of course, I've had some women fuck me better than some men.

But that's sex. When it comes to intimacy and love, I don't know if I'll ever have with a man what I know I can have with a woman, with hot sex to boot. I'm open to it, but I really don't think it's possible. Men and women are just too different. When I was about 16 or 17, I remember telling my mother once - we were in the car - that I knew what I wanted in a man. I told her I wanted a man who thought like a woman. She simply replied that if I ever found him he'd be gay. Ha.

Unexpectedly, I thought that I had it last year with a man. That is, sex, love, and intimacy. Turns out I was wrong. He was a man, with all his man thinking and man ways.

But it's not just sex, either, that attracts me to men more readily than women. A big part of it is how I like for sex to make me feel. I am a very strong person. I am often looked to professionally, socially and personally as a person of power. A person to get things done. A person with the right answers. A person to turn to. A person to depend on. But part of who I am is also a very feminine person. A woman who likes to feel the weight of a man on her. A woman who likes to be enveloped by a man's body. A woman who likes to feel soft because there's somebody bigger and stronger than she is. It's not really so much about dominance and submission as it is more about femininity and masculinity. I like to Feel like a Woman. And as a woman who is six feet tall, let me tell you that I have never felt like that with another woman simply due of my sheer physical stature. I don't care who she is.

But if I am with a woman, it never has been or never will be because I'm settling for something less than what I want because I can't have it with a man. No. On the contrary, I am with her because she gives me more than what I can have with a man. Sex included.

So am I straight or gay? I guess it depends on the day. Or the woman.

~the lady love

The Irony Is...

Saturday night I photographed a circuit party, which was a fundraiser to for a local charity organization. There were about 1200 people there, 1190 of them shirtless gayboys and the other 10 your token straight folk. It was a fantastic party, but I gotta say that I could go the rest of my life without seeing another topless man and be fine.

There's a joke that goes, "How do you recognize two lesbians on their second date? One of them has a u-haul behind her." On the flip side, "How do recognize two gay men on their second date? What second date?" So the funny thing is, whether gay or straight, men are still men. While they were all there to support an excellent cause, it was still an opportunity for them to cruise each other and ogle each other's goods. Men really sick me out. Sorry, but they do, and I'm no prude.

The irony is, I still can't decide if it bothers me more to be in a roomful of men where all they want to do is fuck you or to be in a roomful of men where none of them want to fuck you.

~the lady love

Aaaargh!

I have spent about six hours working on one image. I've shot and re-shot. I was up until 6am working on it. I am so close. I've been SO CLOSE ten times already. I'm getting very frustrated. Wimper.

~the lady love

I'm Straddling the Fence of the Law

So I got a letter from the IRS today that states legal action is pending against me. Apparently they didn't receive my 1st quarter 2005 estimated tax filing, which has happened before, so I guess they're trying to make a point that I can't fuck around with them. I guess I could go to jail? I don't really know what happened here, but I'm not too terribly worried since I will easily be able to clear this up. However, a stint in the pokey might not be so bad... I could take a break from life and make somebody my bitch.

On a more positive note, I met these guys a couple of weeks ago who saw some of my photography. Word has spread since then, and apparently, it has spread to some big time gallery owner in Atlanta who now wants to meet me. Supposedly this guy is known for showing some high profile artists. I'm not getting too excited over this news yet. I mean, the man just wants to meet me, and to be honest, I think I am a pretty good photographer, but I definitely don't think I am great by any means.

But, here's my latest installment of a series I am working on inspired by the lyrics of the great Myshkin, which I actually DO think is pretty great:

Now a black mood is upon me
I'll sit in mourning awhile
For the truth comes and goes
Like a traveling show
But the blame sleeps with me every night

~ Lyrics by Myshkin from the song "Rosebud Bullets" from the record "Rosebud Bullets" / Photo by the lady love



It will be interesting to see how things unfold.

~the lady love

I Am My Own Worst Enemy, Sometimes

One thing I know about myself for sure: too much sleep depresses the hell out of me. So what did I do today? I slept. ALL DAY. I finally got up around 8pm to find myself in a hollow of despair, but I did it to myself. I was supposed to go to visit my parents today, and I spent all day calling between sleep cycles to say, "I'll be there later" until finally at eight I called and said, "I'll be there tomorrow." So, they're pissed at me, too, feeling like I am blowing them off because I haven't seen them in two months since they came to Atlanta to celebrate my 30th birthday. My own guilt about this little fact is not helping my mindset, though I am not blowing them off; I love them. This despressive state is just a cycle that continuously feeds itself.

I will force it shortlived.

I'll start anew tomorrow, crawl out of this hole, and try not to get more than 6 hours of sleep a night to keep my mind healthy.

~the lady love

How's Untitled for a Title?

Tonight I was a Real photographer. A designer who works for one of my clients asked me to shoot a charity "gala" about a month ago. Sure, why not I thought. I won't be paid, but hey, I could use it as a tax write-off. I arrived at the event with a very casual attitude. No big deal.

Until I realized this wasn't just any ole charity event.

Upon arrival, I picked up a program to see the Governor's name on the cover as a chairperson and his name inside the program, as well as the Lt. Governor and the Mayor of Atlanta as part of the presentation. Turns out, this was no small potatoes event. 500 people or so at the Atlanta History Center to honor a local charity that has been around for well over 100 years. The former first lady of the city was there, apparently a big contributor, as were many other "important" people in attendance. Now, the status of the people matter little to me as I believe people are people regardless of their social and/or political rank, but I think it demonstrates the magnitude of the event.

I actually shot this 5-hour event by myself, and I don't mind saying that I did one hell of a job. My name was even in the program as a contributor. Cool.

The event itself was fantastic. I even got a little tear-y at moments (there were some genuine heartfelt moments). But at the end of the night, I couldn't help but laugh and shake my head about how I ended up there with no clue as to what I was in store for.

My-oh-my how life is interesting. Despite feeling completely bored by it (life) sometimes, it somehow manages to keep surprising me.

Ding Dong My Roommate's Gone!

Living with people is hard. I've lived with people. I've lived alone. I've lived with people again. Then I've lived alone again. Throw in one more round for the people in the cheap seats in the back. God it's good to live alone again.

My roommate just moved out of state three weeks ago. Dear, dear friend. Pretty good roommate. Really never any problems. But I don't even miss her, and she's not only gone, she is far gone. I know I will eventuallly miss my friend, but I was suffocating. Right now I can't help but relish the fact that I can breathe again. Of course, our place was a glorified dorm room as I liked to call it. Tiny.

The night before she moved out, I got a hotel room because I just couldn't take it any more. Just Her in my Space. Her money problems being my financial burden. Her issues becoming, in a way, my issues. Our energy morphing into each other's energy simply due to proximity. I felt like her mother in a way, and I am not codependent. Ha, maybe that was the problem (that I am not codependent). I couldn't take feeling like I was merged with somebody that I didn't want to merge with.

I like to inspire people. I like to show friends a good time. I like to be supportive. I like to listen and proffer thoughts, wisdom, comfort. But that's my choice, and when I can't choose my choice because it becomes Expected or Needed, then I start to feel oppressed.

I can only live my life. I can't live someone else's for them.

~ the lady love