where greenwich and christopher split

I am working on a work deadline and my thoughts drifted to Kristin. Even though it's only been a few months since we've spoken, we are light years apart-again. She got married in September; I wish I had been there. I will always be the reminder. It's a sad person to be. I love her like the sky and the moon, and yet when I hug her I feel like I will burn a hole right through her.
If you want to know what will bring me to tears faster than a funeral, it's a rapist stealing everything I knew and loved: stealing family from me. I just had that burn inside my face when you are about to cry. We desperately need some rain out West; I have plenty of it in this heavy head.
Here we are above in our grown up work headshots-so similar yet so very far apart.
And why did I think of her while working on a deadline? I didn't realize I was listening to Fiona Apple's Tidal. It was playing in my ears when I was attacked. The disc dropped out of the player and rolled along the wooden floor. That's where her wave crashed.

I guess one may ask why I would ever listen to it again. Remembering the way things were is important to me: not just for the loss but for all that I had in my imperfectly gorgeous 22 year old world. I listen to it because I own this memory; it does not own me. I listen because I make choices. It is not my choice to have these memories; it is my choice to own them.

Most of all I listen because it reminds me of Kristin in her bellbottom pants and platform shoes. She was always a celebration: full of color, kindness and biting wit. We were branches of a strong, wise tree. We were both women's studies minors, she took self defense classes. We had things under control.
Don't ever live your life in fear, but don't think it can't happen to you.

my boyfriend is normal

My childhood friend sent me this video today. Apparently some of her husband's friends partake in "larping". Watch this video and then go kiss your significant other. That is unless he is sporting a loincloth and screaming "lightening bolt!"

I didn't notice this, but some guy commenting on You Tube did:

"I love how you can see the "lightening bolt" guy starting to pick up his bolts at the end of the video"

I'm not judging; I'm just saying that my mother made me put my dolls away a longgg time ago.

waltz

I was not here, October 2007


Why is it that we are inclined to feel like we are always supposed to be doing something? Is it so socially unacceptable to just sort through your inbox, write and laugh with friends? Why does vacation only apply to destination spots?
Those are three out of a million questions twitching my head this morning. When I am not at work, I have other work to do. If I don't use that time off wisely, I feel like I am behind, or I've wasted time. But time with family is never wasted, and a night walking towards rolling waves and water is precious as there are only precious few moments that make indelible impressions. And I should know that creating my own impressions vs. impressions made by others is the best use of my time. They'll never end up on a to-do list; they are what doctors will never achieve.
Just once I want to put my head down without thinking of what needs to be done the next day, even the "other work".
I was reminded that the trial was only a little over a year ago. I am always reminded of the trial in an every day sort of fashion. In some ways, it feels as long and as deep as the end of the ocean. In other ways, my feet are still wading in the same waters that can pull me in deeper and further, past the buoys and life guards. It is only by the strength of our will that keeps me where I can still touch the ocean's floor.

defying the cochran

audrey on white, 2007

maybe later?

I give the places I have lived in far more press coverage than they deserve. Waverly Place has become my construction site, rebuilding the underbelly of that wicked and beautiful neighborhood, to my last home I shared with David. The place was completely falling apart. If I were to press my hand against the bathroom wall, I could conceivably push through to the kitchen. Water damage. Pipes bursting. 8 year old grey carpets. 12+ old institutional white walls the management never painted (and we were not allowed to paint). An airplane sized sink in the kitchen. Zero counter space. We had water, most of the time, but I don't even want to know what awfulness was in that beige liquid.
When we moved to a fresh space and I was buying furniture and painting, I noticed a very obvious trend: everything I bought was off-white. It was if I had decided that I was going to stick a vamp painted nail in the air to a place that could never wear white. So now we wear white in the fall, on through the winter, and it's quite liberating.
The point being, in some very grasping at straws way, is that when we own something that we call home, we can make peace with that past, or at least laugh at it. Because you can wear white in any season. And so now, my home will be clean, healthy and full of brightness. I'll eventually add color because I do adore a 64 color box of crayons. But for now, I'm wearing white after Labor Day and loving it.

how it really happens

The survivor community is very connected to each other; or maybe I just got really lucky in that area. at some point, we cross each others paths; some become friends, others become family. many times we talk about the pieces of our lives that have been changed in positive ways, like invaluable gifts along a heavy road we walk upon. It's as essential and as pure as water and in my mind, it is absolutely meant to be.

A few days before I flew to NYC for the trial (if you are not familiar, read here), David fell asleep watching TV and awoke to a Dateline story. The next morning on my desk was a sticky note that read "Dateline. Liz. UVA. 'The Letter'. 21 Years Later. Stars." I looked up Liz's web site and thought, "What a strong woman. What an amazing family." I read her story. At some point you'd think you've heard all the stories; it never happens. Liz's story was unfolding 21 years later just as mine had, only it had been 10 years for me. Liz looked like someone I knew. I searched on her contact page trying to figure out where she was from; she was someone I wanted to meet. She was strong, magnetic and determined. I packed the piece of Liz that David gave me in my suitcase and went off to the trial.

A few weeks after I returned from over a month in NYC (trial + sentencing), I received an email from a friend of mine who wanted to put me in touch with another survivor; she thought we might be able to support each other: me, having gone through a trial, and her, having gone through media chutes and ladders. That woman was Liz. In October we met in person, and the rest is our history. We are from the same hometown, we work in the same industry, and now she is very much a part of my heart.

Liz has had more than her share of media attention and if I am ever able to debunk any myth that tries to label her, I will do so. She has received such scrunity for, well, doing what every mother and father taught us to do before we could spell our own names: call for help. After all, a crime committed and crimes DO NOT diminish in severity with time. Are we clear on that point? Because there are many people who aren't getting that it is not the survivor who's under the microscope; it's the person who committed the crime.

In speaking to high school students, I've been asked if I would ever forgive the man who raped me. I have the engagement on tape and can hear a long breath drawn in as I considered the question. My heart told me "no"; as this person is beyond rehabilitation. As sad as it may be, while I don't stew in anger, it's simply not the way I feel. I have peace in knowing that I have done my part in assuring that he never harms another person. As the judge said, "Since you have shown no remorse, I do not feel your sentence should have any either."

Survivors get a lot of "Couldn't you just have?" or "Well that chapter is over"; people who want to believe that if it had been them, they could have prevented it. These are dangerous thoughts with a false sense of protection. You see it every time you watch a news reporter interview someone who's survived trauma. While it is everyone's responsibility to be cautious, it is never about what I did do/didn't do; it's what they did. That seems like such a simple concept. It is our society's responsibility to be honest about our current situation. What kind of steps do we take, as men and women, to treat each other with respect? It starts young, and personally I think the key is education and active participation. Awareness is good, but light years away from prevention.

It's a tangent, but if I may circle back to Liz, she set a precedent that it is never to late to trust in our legal system, it is never to late to report a crime (in her case, again) If you were ever looking for that open door, she opened it for you. So bless her for that, and all that she gives survivors.

What you also may not know is that Liz is funny as hell, so if I'm needing a laugh, I'll probably go here. Lucky me; I can call her too.

in support of other worthy causes

think pink @ Snapfish

I don't mean this to be funny but I like my boobs and I don't want them to go anywhere. Eventually they'll go south but I mean losing one, or both, or worse.

Snapfish has partnered with www.youngsurvival.org Young Survival Coalition(Young Women United Against Breast Cancer) and created the cutest photo notebooks, notepads, and stickers. 30% of the proceeds go to YSC.

From the SF web site: "Instead of using the pink breast cancer awareness ribbons on our products as we've done in the past, we are focusing on beautiful pink designs. We thought the butterfly was particularly hopeful and unique in its beauty." You are so right, Snapfish!

I think the note pads ($7.99 each) in particular would make great $20 and under holiday gifts. Here are a few I made. Cute, right?

an ecuadorian firecracker in san francisco

Vero and Agata, 2006

We've all had those nights where we just want to go home and stare at the ceiling. Ok, I have nights where I plan lots of fun me things to do and end up painting five toenails and falling asleep in my clothes. Many years ago I was cozy in my east village apartment when my childhood friend, Joe, asked me to dinner with his friend Veronica and her fiancee, Jeremy. I almost said "no"; 300 square feet all to myself!

I hated the dinner, and I wasn't crazy about the fiancee, but Veronica was a keeper. Her passport is a sight to behold--she was born in Quito, and has lived in Chicago (where she met her husband at O'Hare Airport) Dresden, Verona , (insert more stamps here) and now San Francisco with her husband and little love bug, Agata.

She is many many things to me, but I write this because her artwork is quite lovely.

I wish the site showcased her work better, but I love her bio.

Welcome back to the US, Vero!!

elisa jimenez fashion show @ SPARC

Today my old Cobble Hill roommate, Mollie King, asked me to model for elisa jimenez's fashion show. Elisa said that my piece, or person, was about letting the rage out in a beautiful way. Hmmm. I had a hard enough time figuring out which side of the dress was up and how the fishing wire would hold up around my chest, but I got what the piece was all about. It was called "desert rainstorm polymorphic dressyiang with running lightening illusion dress underneath" (I don't make this stuff up; just copied it from the program). Really? yes, really.

Elisa has such amazing spirit, and what I love about people with good energy, is that they surround themselves with awfully kind (and talented) people. It's infectous; it makes you wonder why we somtimes choose to lead with arrogance, instead of kindness. I felt as comfortable as I do walking down my hallway. And I got to spend some time with glitter girl Mollie King. What more could a girl ask for on a Tuesday night?

Bravo, Elisa! Literally. You can catch Elisa and all of her wonderfulness on this season's Project Runway

like singing the song that made you lose idol

stiff stuff by me

mixed media on chipboard, 2006

it's been that kind of day. last night there were flashbacks so bad I couldn't even bring myself to talk about it. It's still there, hanging around like a suspicious stranger near your front door with all the signs of danger. He could walk away, but where did he go? And even if he left, he's still with you behind your back, in the closet, underneath your eyelids.
Today was too much stress about not enough space. The missing piece ISO the big O; clearly not finding the right pieces that fit together.
What do you do when you don't want to ruin a moment? When you don't want to bring him into the house but you can't shake it?
You just go on. Sometimes it's all you, singing the song that made you lose in front of 11 million viewers. And you try to be graceful even though you are singing way out of tune. You try to smile, but it looks worse than a frown. But if you don't try to be good, to lose gracefully, they'll slam you and say, wow, she's so ungrateful
I haven't spoken to a group in a little while. It would help to sing for those who already know the words, and know just how painful every note can be.

the sounds of loss

-Like A FireCraker

State College, Penn. 1997? Photo by Marnie Goodfriend

I love this quote from my dear friend (and first post-college boss!), musician Brian Kelly:

“A loss never sits still. It constantly changes into something else, showing up in permutations. Songs are a chance to re-live life, an attempt to turn it into gold with some lighting. Music is closeness and distance, softening, solving and serving up lost feelings… the sound of bells dying off at sea.”
~Brian Kelly (3/4/06)

love is...

...giving your girlfriend all the storage space in the bathroom

what my hands would say

Oh, to have two web sites, an icky blog that became too personal to be public, and way too many social networking profiles (research, people!). Well, you just dust that computer keyboard and start over again.

I just moved into a new home so right now my head is in design blogs and magazines. The place is actually clean enough so that I may write again. So there's really no excuse, really. Right?

These days I'm thinking a lot about hands. Mine are unpainted and ragged from moving, cleaning, and the usual wear and tear. Does anyone actually still wear rubber gloves to wash dishes? I was thinking about hands that are all about trust, and commitment which always makes me think of the other hands. The ones that should never touch someone else's skin.

So here's what's in my lint collector today:
-chipped china dishes
-unanswered phone calls
-a pillow top mattress
-painfully short broken finger nails
-fi the apple


and here's what came out:

What My Hands Would Say
my fingers are chipped
like a cracked hairline china dish
split between now and you know when
i stopped seeing stars
fancy dinner patterns gone to waste

the sky is falling and I just might
the sky is crying that's just about right
i'll roll with you-- the thunder and the ache
i'll sing you to sleep even when you are not awake

hammer it out some -- peforate
spread the words out and hear them reverberate
not quite what you said
not like what your heart sounds like

we're twelve times removed
in and out of black and white