Graduation Day...

* I struggled with the idea of posting this. As usual I second guess myself wondering if I am sharing too much and leaving myself naked. Thanks Ezzy for saying the following... You have your followers because of your authenticity and talent. Don't compromise.  

I drive weekly to this small and hidden waterhole near my house. All summer Baby M has reluctantly gone to the beach not taken any steps into the water she sits by the shore and plays in the sand. She has been cautious even by the pool area. She is cautious in just about everything. I have settled and grown comfortable to watch her play in the sand for hours. Something about a kid being safe gives you such peace like when they are newborns and you know they are not going to go anywhere and peacefully they just sleep like angels. All that changes when a child gathers independence, a will and strength. All that changes when a child begins the process of decision making. 

 I am sure she has an internal clock that is marking the summer's end. I am sure she can tell the sun is beginning to set a bit earlier and that the sun rays are leaning in a different direction. Punxsutawney Phil did not have any lessons but yet we have paid attention to the predictions since 1887. I am certain at the age of three she knew. Summer is almost over...

I did not bring her bathing suit it was not the plan to swim but she is the perfect country girl and she adapted and did not resist the powers of a salt water marsh lined with sea grass.  Her older sister took cue and follow suit. Because that is what older sisters do...

My Graduation...

Truth is I have had 3 emotional breakdowns since Monday including one late Sunday night as I was watching The Life of Pi.

Like Richard Parker my son has left the house. Not that I am not thrilled with his departure at the age of 21. What broke me in half was the way he so unceremoniously left me. Not even a head turn to wish me farewell...

He was the only child I planned. He was planned since I had been married for two years and my then husband a military man, a young military man, was embarking on a tour to Desert Storm going off to war and I could not bear that I, his wife, had not given him a  child regardless if I was only 18. Like the most enthusiastic martyr I forsake any plans for a career or financial stability in the future. I forsaken my independence and the possibility of a nest egg in the name of love.

It was tough for my Richard Parker and I. I was so young and completely stupid and when he was three years of age I became a single mother. I can do this. I am strong enough. I have survived before.

Bounce or Fly? Crawl.

My marriage was not a walk in the park and neither was the second husband I also left behind in that god forsaken town.  A church every ten steps from your front door. An incomplete college education, a middle school level in the English language and a knack for photography was not going to cut it in the tiny southern town of Hinesville, GA. Back then there were three stop lights, one titty bar and one Wal-Mart that was all that brought life to the town. My kid and I were living in our private version of southern town hell. One tiny brown kid. One angry brown girl. One Southern town. Two husbands later I crawled and made my way to Savannah, GA.

With my knees skinned and bloody I had already caused enough damage. I had bounced from one end of the world to another. By the time I found an anchor and by the time my roots grew... His trunk was leaning the other way. Looking for a different source of sunlight. It breaks my heart to even think that I might be the reason why the kid is so quick to leave me without a proper goodbye. It breaks my heart to know he is not attached to me and that was a lesson I wrote for him early on. I also have the feeling that his inability to be attached to me might be a part of his DNA... Inheritance from his Father. Otherwise I would have never had a need of crawling and no trunks would have been bend looking for sunlight. For whatever reason... He is now gone without a proper goodbye.

So I manically dance between being the parent of a toddler, a teen and a adult and graduate once again to another level into a more difficult road in motherhood. One I am trying to understand. To follow the words I am trying absorb...

On Children

by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Blackie...

Something you need to know about me. I cuss like a sailor even though I don't on my blog. This post has a few obscene words . This post is my story.  My first attempt to deal with some wounds. This is a true story... If you have never read the blog please read the About Page and the following post.  To my regular readers, friends and family... I did ask permission to write this. She (Mom) gave me artistic freedom to write regardless of how painful it could be to read.  I thank my lucky stars and I admire and love her for allowing me to move forward regardless of ego or emotions. This is not an apology for my words or the story about to be told but a bit of background information. 

Unapologetically Yours, Blackie. 

I want to talk about her.

"Oh... her" my mother said as if  I was talking about somebody deceased.

We all change over time.  Evolve. Grow up.

But to have a persona of yourself die.

To know that if I was face to face with that girl would she even acknowledge me as her future.

It was the last day of school before the Christmas break. Friday. December the 18th 1987. Plans had been made for everyone to meet at the rainforest after school to celebrate. These plans had not been shared with my parents.  A "no" was not going to stop me that night. All I could do was ask for forgiveness since I wasn't asking for permission. I needed nothing from them but time.

My father, a converted Jehovah Witness and closeted alcoholic, would never allow me to go anywhere. He was a singer songwriter during the late nineteen fifty's in Miami Beach right after the Cuban revolution and he reassured me he had seen it all. Since he had seen it all, there was no need for me or anyone to travel and see anything other than our familiar surroundings. My father wasn't protective. He was a tyrant, a dictator, a sadomasochist and alcohol enhanced it. Nine months prior to this day he had dragged me by my hair down the street. By down, the street I mean two blocks down the street.  And by dragging me by my hair, I literally mean dragging me by my hair. My feet had no choice but to keep up with the fast pace of my father's footsteps. That was just the prelude, the Intro, as his musician self would have referred to it. I had no doubt what my father would do to me "the night of the rainforest" as I now refer to it.

Money came via a visit to the pawn shop. A gold necklace. Figaro. The pawnbroker must have been pretty happy with his thirty dollar score. To me it was my ticket to freedom.

Thirty bucks in 1987 could buy you:

1 Megadeth T Shirt

A Half pack of Marlboro Red

1 Bottle of Lambrusco

1 joint (pre-rolled)

2 bus rides

1 Slice of Chorizo Pizza

1 gulpie size Coca Cola

A few dollars to contribute for gasoline.

In attendance was my much older boyfriend. I had just turned fifteen a few months prior. He had been eighteen for awhile. He was also the driver of a brand new MR2 which made him look cool.  His hair stretched down to his waist and he wore a leather jacket that matched the attitude. He was a bad boy and I knew it. He was bad and I wasn't. I, the girl that had never gone out on a date, the classically trained ballet dancer wanted  her freedom.

The rain forest was everything after closing hours. It provides you with everything to make fairy tales come alive. From mythical creatures with wings and red eyes to goat blood sucking monsters and the many waterfalls and tropical birds. El Yunque is one of the oldest in the western hemisphere and the only tropical rainforest in the USFSS (United States Forest Service System) Home to seventy kinds of birds, eleven kinds of bats, eight kinds of lizards and thirteen kinds of  Coqui, to over two-hundred and twenty five species of trees and plants, twenty six of which are found nowhere else. The rainforest like  a great a recipe has all the ingredients to make something really mystical.

We climbed the watchtower after hours through the lower level windows. Once we were up in our tower we could see the mountains and the whole island among the clouds. Three thousand and three hundred feet over sea level. By my side stood the god of rock and cock. An untamed force as wild as a hurricane and just as destructive. Who could stop us. We were gods for a moment. Drunk on wine and high on cannabis we felt like gods. I looked out over the forest as if it was my kingdom. The trees bowed gently towards me paying their homage. The Ceiba trees said you are queen. I was their protector and my forest would survive the industrial machine driven by American interest.

We danced while we stood high on the turret.  Jokes were exchanged as well as anarchists and socialist political arguments were thrown to the mix. I felt smart and strong until it was our time to go back. As I was walking down the spiral staircase of my turret my mortality became apparent. There were ninety-eight steps to reach the bottom. Every step brought us closer to the beginning of our end.

As the last to leave we fell prey to the forest spirits.  The mud was so thick and unyielding it held to the tires of the MR2 like it had been left there for years. And maybe it was. It rains every fifteen minutes at the top of the mountain or about two-hundred and forty inches of rain a year. Time held no sway to us on that night. The forest would not let me go. In a desperate attempt I sacrificed my Megadeth tee shirt in hopes it would be enough to get the tire out. As anyone knows from back-country living the only way to get a vehicle out of the mud is to put something under the tires to give them traction.

A stop sign would be what did the trick only after taking a gash out of his head as he yanked it off the pole. My god of rock turned into the lord of murder with blood dripping from his head and covering his whole face like new skin.

We were freed. But I was about to be taken hostage by something far worse than unyielding mud. My father, god of rum and not giving a shit for what you have to say, was about to show me his wrath.

Like a knight, I was ready for the battle. As I arrived home every single one of the lights were turned on.  It was lit up like a boxing rink.  My father beat me like a man. Like a man, I stood up to fight him after I had been knocked down. Like a man, I squared off to him and said I am no longer afraid of you. Like a man, he told me to get out of my house.

Before you ask... And as if cued and told to exit stage left my mother was not around or at least I can't remember her being in that one room. I do remember her helping me pack my bags while she shook her head in a disapproving way at me. I was late. I had broken curfew. I was defiant. I deserved it. Her eyes reminded me of the women I had seen in photographs walking in a straight line in Auschwitz. Empty. Defeated.

But now the blood was on his hands. This is the little monster he would create. Adriana had walked out the doors and in her place stepped a different woman one that could handle the streets of Carolina. A girl that was ruthless. Calculating. Smart enough to lead. A five foot four menace to society. Her street-name was Blackie and this is the beginning of her tale.       

I've told my husband stories about her and about her existence. Amusing anecdotes to pass the time. It never became real to him until he met some of my comrades from the past. I love the word comrades over friends. Friends are the ones that you tell jokes with and send flowers if they are sick. A comrade will step in front of a bullet for you with no thought to their own lives because they would be dying for something bigger than themselves. We were rebels and we thought we had a cause. We were rebels about to cause a revolution.

"Oh, you had to schedule an appointment to see her."
" You could assume she was always watching it all."

"If  Blackie gave an order we did it."
"No one got too close to her."

"How the hell did we ever survive that."

These were some of the things that my husband would hear until one night he turned to me and said point blank... "Who the fuck were you?"

It is a fair question but one which might need more time to be answered.
To be continued...

 

About Magic...

My days have been filled with light and so much sunshine and in every turn I make I see something I wish to capture. Right now, I am so in love with my camera and my medium that the most simple of things become art. 

On an ordinary morning we visit a bakery and it becomes this place filled with wonder. We arrive and the smell of bread baking and sweet chocolate lingers in the air and I tell you if you let yourself magic is all around us...

Because Chandeliers with marshmallow garlands are not ordinary neither is the way my daughter tears tiny bites of the brownie proclaiming it could possibly be the best brownie she ever had.

Nothing is ordinary if we turn it into an extraordinary adventure.

We leave the bakery inspired since we have paid attention to all the signs and we take a stroll through the park. This is when you say I might be gushing or exaggerating but yes... Magic is everywhere and my daughter and I pretended these were knights fighting and battling for our honor...

And now with a full tummy and redeemed by knights just like that my day is magic.

Wishing nothing but pure magic.
Happy Midweek.

About Knights and Soldiers...

I only left the nest once this weekend to visit with my godmother that was visiting my city. There were no images taken by me during the visit with her. I find myself closing in when I have some deep and introspective moments. I no longer am a witness of my surroundings because I am the subject in question. For many years I have held my mother responsible for the outcome of my life. After-all she allowed my father to leave me homeless at the age of 15. I find it hard when anyone tells me to move on as if it never happened.

But it did... It did happen... I was alone with no parental supervision and no one that could guide me. I was lonely. I was scared... the uncertainty and the fear of the unknown like shadows and monsters continue to haunt me. I felt unloved and discarded... I can't think of a worst feeling than to feel unloved and unwanted. I felt betray by my makers and this would help create and dictate the person I have become. Because when someone hurts us deeply we can forgive... but we can't forget...

We arm ourselves like knights in metal armour grab our shields and swords and walk life prepared for battle. We build moats between ourselves and others and may add a few alligators for precaution. We design heavy walls and doors that are impenetrable and hard to climb... We also build turrets that we can climb unto so we can see in the distant and warn ourselves of everyone and anyone that walks near us and try to let themselves in...  

Yes, we become soldiers ready for battle when our hearts are broken. The hurt... the pain... the anguish and the broken trust are tough emotions to deal with. It is also hard to forget because it is the way we learn and we grow...  As children early on we learn fire is hot so we avoid and try not to ever touch... As adults we learn heartbreak and we proceed to protect ourselves. So we go on walking life like game of whack a mole. Everywhere there is a possibility of love and trust when it comes up we whack it fast with all our might and power. Until one day our arms tired and we give in... We try again full of hope and faith... 

My arms were tired at 19 and I gave in to love with the birth of my son... My forgiveness came in through my children... This was the safest must trustworthy place I've found to rest my weary soul. To restore all the love and faith for all humanity... This is the only place I have found to be true, pure and like a river I have come to it to cleanse myself new... Be reborn again. 

I am not certain when I will banish all those dark corners... I am not sure when I will clear and free myself of all the spider-webs. I can tell you I no longer live in a castle where a moat separates me from humankind... I tore down the turrets and now I can look out from a window... My walls have been torn down...
But somehow I feel I should at least hold on to my shield... 

Just in case...

My Punk Rock Self...1987 Age 15.

The Circus Of Life...

Images... Sounds... Colours... Smells...Taste...Touch...
All things to stimulate the senses...
There is so much beauty out there...
So much style and so many ideas...
Some at times revolutionary...
Some irrational and ridiculous...
Some senseless but they are ideas nonetheless...

Tonight we went on another adventure my teen and I...
When we escape together to do something... anything... just the 2 of us...
It takes me back to the time when it was just me and him...
Him and I against the world...

Our lives back then was so hard... so lonely...
We tried to move forward but life would set us 10 steps back...
No matter how hard we would try...
No matter how hard we would work...
No matter how far we would sprint...
No matter how good we were...
No matter how we would try to simplify...

It was so hard for my kid and I...
So funny to be here admiring "The Steampunk Circus"...
After fighting for survival in the Circus of Life...


My Son Jorge admiring the art pieces...





Art pieces by a collective of artist...


Some more of what I saw...





Lady Savannah never disappoints...


Kid we've come a long way...
Now you have two sweet sisters that will forever watch over you...
Because they adore you and they need you...
Now I understand that everything we went through was not in vain...
We were sacrificing... becoming more patient and humble...
More understanding...
The pain gave us strength and now we look at each other and we can honestly say...
We did it... We made it through...
Now and forever with the love of this beautiful family that stands next to us...

Until Friday peeps... Stay Sweet!

Your questions...
I was asked about the pieces and the art show.
All pieces will be up until the end of the month of April.

What is Steampunk? 
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Steampunk is a sub-genre of science fiction, alternate history, and speculative fiction that came into prominence during the 1980s and early 1990s.^[1] Specifically, steampunk involves an era or world where steam power is still widely used—usually the 19th century and often Victorian era Britain—that incorporates prominent elements of either science fiction or fantasy. Works of steampunk often feature anachronistic technology or futuristic innovations as Victorians may have envisioned them; in other words, based on a Victorian perspective on fashion, culture, architectural style, art, etc. This technology may include such fictional machines as those found in the works of H. G. Wells and Jules Verne or real technologies like the computer but developed earlier in an alternate history.

Other examples of steampunk contain alternate history-style presentations of "the path not taken" for such technology as dirigibles, analog computers, or such digital mechanical computers asCharles Babbage and Ada Lovelace's Analytical engine.

Steampunk is often associated with cyberpunk. They have considerable influence on each other and share a similar fan base, but steampunk developed as a separate movement. Apart from time period and level of technology, the main difference is that steampunk settings tend to be less dystopian.

Various modern utilitarian objects have been modded by individual artisans into a pseudo-Victorian mechanical "steampunk" style, and a number of visual and musical artists have been described as steampunk.