nearly forgotten drawings from Paris...

from a memory sparked by Mark's reminder that photos aren't always the only option.

From Enchantment to Easy

Sunset in Albuquerque with doves on telephone wires.


Tour of latest additions of best friends father's Motorbike collection.





The incredible tree decorating duo of Abigail and Hannah

The Tree at the Compound.


Long lost art from undergrad







Tiny Planes and Big Hats at Denver International.

Where I've been...

After opening Wallenberg in White Plains, NY,
I returned to NYC to have a very brief Halloween
and quickly shop (4 days) for a tiny musical called
Only A Kingdom. After that I flew down to New Orleans
for a mini break (aka, a bender), then drove with my
housemate from NOLA to Pittsburgh to clean up her late
mothers property. This was difficult as it turns out
Mum was a hoarder. With cats. There was a cat room.
I repeat. Cat Room. Enough said.
We then drove back to NYC, where the next day we
returned to White Plains to close Wallenburg.
And here I sit at the end of it, snug in bed in Astoria.
Tired with a few extra pounds, wary of having too much
stuff and warier of having to scrape animal poo off
of a hardwood floor.

Quelues Photos:

Brooke Sheilds in the Lobby of a cinema on 50th & 3rd Avenue, NYC



Cosmonaut Luau at the Saturn Bar, New Orleans








Plants on the Balcony, Satsumas from the yard, Wine from Lunch. New Orleans





My and my particle mask, Pittsburgh



Rural Pennsylvania en route from Pittsburgh to NYC

Home (Pronunciation: \ˈhōm\ Function: noun)

Etymology:

Middle English hom, from Old English hām village, home; akin to Old High German heimšeima family, servants, Sanskrit kṣema habitable, kṣeti he dwells, Greek ktizein to inhabit home, Lithuanian

Date:

before 12th century

1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house2: the social unit formed by a family living together3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment ; also : the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is> b: habitat4 a: a place of origin home to spawn> ; also : one's own country home and abroad> b: headquarters 2 <home of the dance company>5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs <homes for the elderly>6: the objective in various games ; especially : home plate

— at home

1: relaxed and comfortable : at ease at home on the stage>2: in harmony with the surroundings3:: knowledgeable on familiar ground at home in their subject fields>


I grew up carrying luggage.

In near constant motion I would move from family member to family member.
Partly out of convenience to my parents who were all but twenty when I was born, and partly out of a odd
juvenile form of wanderlust. I asked to move. I asked relatives if I could come for extended visits.
I traveled good distances in the summers. From age three until around twelve I was nomadic.

Or maybe I was a tourist. Homeless.

Being considerably older than three years old now, I am increasingly aware of the effects of my childhood affinity for travel has had on my later years. I grew up away from my parents. Thousands of miles away sometimes. I crossed a sea and began to speak differently from them, developed a palate unknown to my siblings, I grew to be comforted by foreign objects and cultural projections. A little american-born european.

When I came home the adjustment was always a struggle. Things would not work the same way, from door knobs to accepted behaviours. Words changed. People regarded me differently. Being a mixed race child in the eighties who had a continental accent and artistic tendencies was not so common. More so in the small North Carolina towns my mum began to live in with my step-father, who made it clear he disaproved of both me and my upbringing. Thus I never felt at home.

Home later came to be New Mexico. And now New Orleans, a place that while maintaining a absolute sense of United States bravado also recalls the cool grandeur of childhood landscapes.

I am still as displaced though. Having chosen the work that I do makes me even more of a vagabond, traveling from job to job with only school as an anchor. Will I ever buy a house? Will I ever plant a garden? Will I ever take root?
Eventually I imagine I have to. Right? Eventually you find a spot that is a fit and you find that you are quite comfortable. You have a job that is not in danger of becoming obsolete or does not end in six weeks, a house that you like quite well and begin melding yourself with it. Buying furrniture that is not partly disposeable or easily
resold.

Eventually I might get there, but being a little homeless has not worked out terribly for me. I suppose it makes me even more a world citizen not to be tied to one local, ventureing out on vacations and always returning to the same spot. Which sounds fantastic, I would very muck love to settle down with someone and plan exotic getaways. But for some one who has lived their life as an exotic getaway that can be a little claustrophobic.

Maybe I need to live aboard an areoplane, or a ship. But how does one garden on a plane?

(post suggested by Cassien G.)

Oh the Horror

Of all the horror stories of lost luggage this has to be the worst.

I arrived last week, expecting to drive half way across the country
to receive my sisters cats upon her return from Japan. The night before
leaving however I got a message from her saying that the airline was
refusing to let her travel with the cats. They said that the cargo hold
for the plane to Tokyo was too hot for them, after selling her the
boarding cost for them. So she runs around Misawa trying to find last
minute housing for her pets, one of whom she rescued after it was
injured in a fall. She ends up having to leave them in a shelter.
Upon arrival in Tokyo she is told that she could have brought the
cats on another airline via transfer.

It gets worse.

When she gets to Dallas, after flying for twenty hours, she calls the
shuttle for the hotel and heads there for a sleep before leaving to
San Antonio in the morning. Arriving at the hotel she notices that
her carry on is missing, the porter has left it curbside at the airport.
Money, laptop, camera, documents, identity, souvenirs...all gone.

I spent the weekend trying to track down any hope of trying to find it.
Calls to airport security, lost and found and travelers aid. Calling
shuttle services and hotels on the off chance.

But no.