BlackWater

Even the sound of it is evocative and eerily apropos. the image of black slime, oozing across the land-covering the innocent with an ever-moving, tarry black mass. so that one species is indecipherable from another in the steamy swamp. infested. toxic. which it is. and now the administration, in all its wisdom, has given those bodies who pollute the waters immunity from all wrongdoing. what land is this? what people are these? what conscience survives in a place that was once the beacon of hope to the entire world. what took us from the greatest country on earth to a twisted, sardonic effigy of those who once walked our land. what moment in time marked this outcome? the second that saw the step away from the light and into the dark?

maman

there was a time
when the whole world lived in you
when all i wanted was to sit in your lap
and look up at your dark eyes
and touch your chin
with my fingertips

i thought i could never be as beautiful as you
i didn't like who i was and pretended to be others
more beautiful and talented
anyone but me

as i grew up, you stopped seeing who i was
you were busy trying to mold me into something else
like a piece of clay that you soften and work
into a shape that reflects your thought

i pulled away from you. i was angry.
i didn't want to be someone else anymore. i wanted to be me.
i wanted you to see
and to love the person i was becoming
like a flower, with petals that unfold

but you compared me to other flowers
perhaps more fragrant or with colors
more vibrant
i struggled to be and to know who i was

you continued to love me and i to love you
but it was a pained love, full of frustration
and sadness
and then one day--instead of resenting
and pulling and pushing
i softened.

i simply let go to who i was, letting it unfold
like a flower
and you started to like me again
and i to like you

you finally accepted all those things you
wanted to change
and you started to see them in a new light
a bouquet of you and my father
with sprigs of my own
collected from deserts and hillsides
seashores and sidewalks, the wind and the rain.

i love you now like i did so long ago
when i fell asleep in your lap
in the backseat of the car
all cozy like a cat curled up in the warm
when everything was perfect, everything was calm
and you, after all these years, look at me and smile
you see who i am
and you love me more with all my imperfections
than the image all those years ago
you wanted me to be

pride in work

i sent my bracelet to m. frances, who lives in the santo domingo pueblo, about 60 miles west of Albuquerque, new mexico. i met her at the taos pueblo during the San Geronimo feast, an ancient ceremonial event celebrated near the end of the harvest season. This crisp day in October, over a hundred local Native american artisans brought their crafts to display on folding tables set up throughout the pueblo. amidst the sea of exquisitely crafted silver jewelry, pottery, and other wares, a necklace with a turqoise and fiery orange stone pendant caught my eye. i stopped to admire it and began a conversation with the woman who stood behind the table where it was displayed. i mentioned a bangle bracelet my mother had given me years ago. several turquoise stones were missing and i wondered if she could repair it. she suggested that i mail it to her. i agreed. so she took one of her fiance's cards and printed her name carefully in ink above the p.o. address: m. frances.

after i mailed the bracelet, several days went by without a word from her. i tried calling a few times, but no one answered the phone. eventually an automated message informed me that voice mail for this number hadn't been set up yet. i was slightly annoyed. more than a week had gone by since i put the bracelet in the mail. i knew that i had taken a chance, sending a bracelet to someone i barely knew, but in spite of no communication from her or her fiance, i was certain i would see the bracelet again.

finally, nearly two weeks after mailing the bracelet, frances answered her cell phone. she apologized for the delay, telling me that apparantly her fiance had picked up the package from the p.o. box days before, but had neglected to tell her. she works as a nurse, she explained, and often has extended shifts. By the time she gets home, her fiance is either asleep or at his job. As a result, she had barely seen him during the past several weeks. But she had finally spotted my package under a stack of other items on a bureau in her dining room.

as for the bracelet--frances informed me that the stones were imitation, but that if i liked, she could replace them with real turquoise. it would cost me eighty dollars for the stones and for her work. i thought about this for awhile--calculating whether or not i wanted to spend the money, realizing that the price was fair, but wondering if the money could be better spent. i thought about the lapidariest i had taken it to a few months ago, a man who told me he would charge me sixty dollars for the stones alone--and that they would be plastic, not real turquoise. i was processing all of this when suddenly she spoke in a different tone, as if she had somehow heard my conversation with the lapidariest in California. Her voice was soft and clear. She was telling me something straight from her heart.

"i don't use imitation stone or metal, because that is cheating. my grandfather told me a long time ago that you must be proud of your work, that that is important. you must always be proud of what you do and not cheat anyone. and then the person who wears your work wears it with pride as well."

i was struck by what she said, because she could have easily replaced the missing stones with more fake ones. and i would have paid her far more than what they were worth. but instead she chose to tell me the truth, knowing that I would probably choose not to have the bracelet repaired, especially because she had also told me that the band was some kind of metal, not silver.

so i chose not to have the bracelet repaired, but it doesn't matter. this woman gave me something far more beautiful than the bracelet and she gave it to me for free. she transmitted to me the spirit of her grandfather, who spoke of doing your work with pride. so that when you give or sell something that you have made--it is something of value, something from you.

i carried that into my workplace the next day. i thought of things i had written--too quickly perhaps, because they weren't that important and didn't deserve the focus of my time. but that day i decided to change that. so that whatever i do--i will do it with pride. pride in the work and pride in the giving, because of it.

Being Alan Conway Being Stanley Kubrick

Here's the short version: total, unmitigated, brilliant fun from start to finish. John Malkovich as Alan Conway in Color Me Kubrick, the guy who pretended to be Kubrick in London for a number of years in the '90s (and got away with it!), is outrageously good. He plays his queenly character to the hilt. Every expression, every combination of purposely bad New York, British, and other accents that apparently Conway tried to do in earnest--all of these hit the mark. His walk, side-long gazes, flutter of those remarkable eyelashes caked with mascara--all the little touches that indeed pronounce him a Queen. In fact, Malkovich is so at home with this persona, you wonder. . . And wait until you see him in his fuzzy coat and gypsy scarf, a striking image reminiscent of Edie Beale in Grey Gardens, and only one of a rich assemblage of fashion statements he parades around in during the course of the film.

The story is quite fantastic. Apparently Conway managed to dupe people into thinking he was Stanley Kubrick, the famous and reclusive film director. He managed to get people to pay his hotel bills, lured young boys into sexual escapades, would pretend he lived in upscale neighborhoods by having a new acquaintance meet him in front of a posh address, to name only a few of his lavish and skillfully executed ruses. He even managed to fool people who knew the actual Kubrick. One of these people was Frank Rich, then theatre critic for the New York Times. It seems that one night he and a Hollywood producer who had actually met Kubrick - fell for Conway's act. As Kubrick, Conway gained entrance to exclusive nightspots, was invited to countless parties and restaurants. And he was forever adept at not signing a check or paying a bill. And perhaps the most amazing thing is, he displayed very little knowledge of Kubrick the man, or his films.

Conway manages to entice people by portraying himself as the recognized celebrity recluse "confiding" in just them. So the recipient of his "confidential ramblings" feels special, privileged in fact, and is only too happy to pick up the bill, because 'Kubrick' seems to have forgotten to bring any cash and has also managed to leave all his credit cards on his bureau. He drops names right and left, manufactures ideas for movies he will direct, confuses actors from the past and present. All this delivered in exagerrated language, accents, and the every-so-queenly flair.

Being Stanley Kubrick, John Malkovich has achieved what I truly believe to be his best role. What could have been a slapstick misery is a remarkable achievement. You don't dislike the man, you don't pity him. You're highly entertained by him. In fact, you're enthralled by him.

This story about a man who set out to be someone he was not, who played it with all the truth of what he wanted, and who managed to pull it off--in spite of incredible odds, is a delightful sojourn into someone else's dream. And as Malkovich brings it all so delightfully to life, we play along with him, willingly.

Directed by Brian Cook, who worked with the actual Stanley Kubrick as his assistant director in many films, Color Me Kubrick, released in 2005, is a fabulous ride.

Look for more of my movie reviews on Slick's Flicks

follow britain's lead

just read that by spring of '08 britain will cut its force in iraq by one-half. nice idea. let's do one better. take all our forces out--right now. listened to seymour hirsh a few days ago, interviewed on NPR. as for what to do in iraq, his response was quick, to the point, and easy to understand. option one: get all the troops out by midnight tonight. option two: get all the troops out by midnight tomorrow. our presence there does nothing towards solving a situation that continues to exist in large part because we are there. six years is far too long for a war that has no basis. let's get out. now.

vietnam

It’s about time
And wanderings
And grass that grows
Beneath your feet

when you smiled
And said i love you and
shared a summer peach

Forty years ago
i saw your father on the street.

his eyes were grey and

emptied of all his dreams.

you had died, he said simply

'over there' in a foreign field

i still see you

young and so believing

smiling in the wind that summer day

Searching for the answer to something
You didn't have the chance to ask

my camera

I’ve been working on getting to the place where taking pictures is a natural part of what i do. No internal dialogue. Just shoot. So on a recent trip to New Mexico, I carried my digital camera with me nearly everywhere I went. The strap slung over my shoulder, or camera in hand, I was ready to go.

One evening for a reason somewhat unknown to me, I decided to leave my camera in the motel. I suppose on some level it was a matter of “one less thing” to lug around and keep track of as we zigzagged through the streets of santa fe. Maybe it was partly the idea of just living the experience, rather than tracking it. but in spite of that, it was a big mistake.

As we drove towards santa fe, the afternoon showers segueyed into rain. The sun kept its stronghold in the sky and the result was astonishing. Deep azure blue, ever moving and changing pale grey to charcoal clouds, areas of misty white floating across the sky, and amidst all this--like an ancient wisdom that broke through the chaos, the calm and gradual emergence of a double rainbow the likes of which I’ve never seen or imagined. Image upon image confounded my vision. The colors—not just of the rainbows themselves, but the sky canvas upon which they were painted were of an intensity that seemed almost impossible. This was especially true when the bands were superimposed on the highway or buildings--like a sheet of brightly colored cellophane. i had never seen anything like this--real or imagined and without sounding too pessimistic believe i never will again--at least not in this lifetime.

In some ways, I wanted the images to stop being so beautiful. So that I could justify my decision to leave the camera behind. And could even dismiss the beauty of what I had seen so far as being somehow part of my imagination. But I realized how ridiculous that was and gave in to the moment and lived it. I did manage to take pictures, countless ones in fact. I have no tangible record, of course. So you may not even believe me. But I can play them back anytime at all. The thing is--they're only for me.

getting there

touching the sky

a pueblo at the top of the mesa, without electricity or running water. the spirits that lived here long ago--perhaps when the world began, live here still. imbued with power and mystery, it's a sacred place. where the skies are ever changing. where the people pray for rain and when it comes, the land is happy and the people rejoice. the acoma pueblo is a place where the beauty of the earth is astonishing. unencumbered by the taint of modern civilization, its structures and its people can reach up and touch the sky.

an acoma man drove us up to the pueblo. his thick black hair was straight and touched his shoulders. his dark eyes large and smiling, he told us that each year he leaves his home on the flatter part of the reservation to live on the mesa for a awhile. his is one of the 15 families from the reservation that maintain a home in the ancient pueblo. at night, he climbs the ladder to the flat roof of his home and looks up at the stars. in the silence and the stillness, when everything in the world is in harmony. you can hear your self think. "there's nothing like it," he smiles. i imagine. perhaps he converses with his ancestors. but that's not something he told me. nor is it something i asked.