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| keith and suzanne at d'arcy's farm, michigan 1998 People had gathered from far & wide to celebrate Peter's birthday, including this one girl who flew in on a private jet, I asked her: Are You From Holland? You Sound Just Like My Sister's Friend Sasha, and she said I Am Sasha's Sister, So You Must Be Claudia's Sister. There was the morning Suzanne & I sat on the pasture fence looking at D'arcy's horses rollicking in the windblown grass, we caught one and rode him bareback in the apple orchard. Suzanne braided flowers in her hair and we had this beautiful hippy trippy experience, the rest of the time I was so in love with Peter I was afraid to take his picture, superstitiously believing that any attempt to possess him with my camera would seal my fate in ways i did not want; when he declared himself to me i was too chicken to take it on because that would have meant changing my life in ways too radical to contemplate, so instead I went back to NY, where I tortured myself & my loved ones for a couple more years. suzanne said You Mean You Were Living An Inauthentic Life, But The Appearance Was Good, and I said Yes, That's It. check out keith's current band goldenboy, meanwhile here's a cool video from that era featuring keith, his brother kerry, & d'arcy among other assorted rock stars: |
Showing posts with label girlHistory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girlHistory. Show all posts
i found a picture of you (4)
i found a picture of you (2)
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| i remember that day exactly: we were staying up the country with lev and nadine, zippy was still a little baby and i dreamed there was a cow floating in the swimming pool; one of those hieratic images that stay with you for a long time generating all sorts of consequences in waking life... steven by stef, woodstock circa 1995 |
i found a picture of you
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| with my dear friend olof, who taught me so much about life & art, and who took me to NY to see our friends from scruffy the cat, also to the pogues show with joe strummer... back then the city was really badass; i'm so glad i got a glimpse of its true underground grandeur before its final extinction. picture by my kid sis, boston circa 1986 and here's scruffy playing the rat, our favorite dive where the police famously once played and which is now defunct of course like all good things from that era... we were probably there: |
a working class hero is something to be
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| in my UMWA hat, a gift from one of the miners I interviewed for my piece on the 1993 strike against Peabody Coal... yes! girlontape once was a journalist engagée/enragée. stef by steven, miami 1995 |
right round like a record baby
one of the wonderful things about coming home is... getting back in touch with the vinyl queen we used to be:she'll turn the music on you
you won't have to think twice
she's pure as New York snow
she's got bette davis eyes!
lo lindo de volver a casa: reconectarse con la diva de los vinilos que alguna vez fuimos...
born to be wild
I was fortunate enough to interview Dennis Hopper for RAI Italian TV back in 1990, at the tender age of 24. Fresh out of Wellesley cum journalism grad school, I was determined to kick some bad boy ass, because in my militant feminist opinion his most recent movie at the time was a trite piece of sexist noir cliché...
but my battle with the patriarchy in the shape of the Easy Rider himself was short-lived, because he charmed my socks off within seconds. What remains is the devilish twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes as he confided: "I'm in love, and I'm about to have a son... I'm the happiest man on earth right now." I always did worship you Dennis... you will be missed.
but my battle with the patriarchy in the shape of the Easy Rider himself was short-lived, because he charmed my socks off within seconds. What remains is the devilish twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes as he confided: "I'm in love, and I'm about to have a son... I'm the happiest man on earth right now." I always did worship you Dennis... you will be missed.
dennis lee hopper may 17, 1936 - may 29, 2010
yessir
"Andá al sex shop" me dijo "y llevate lo que más te asusta.""Go to the sex shop" he said, "and get yourself whatever scares you the most."
bitchin' camaro memories
Believe it or not, girlontape once was a wicked cool chick.She lived in Allston, MA with a bunch of artists, took pictures - some of which are currently on exhibit in formosa gallery in buenos aires - and drove to school every day in her yellow 1976 BITCHIN' CAMARO, singing the famous tune that goes:
When I drive past the kids
They all spit and cuss
Cause I've got a BITCHIN' CAMARO
And they have to ride the bus!!
Since tragically I do not possess a photo of my treasured BITCHIN' CAMARO I'm forced to post this pale imitation of the phat dope original.
(You just have to imagine it minus the racing stripes, plus a few hundred dents and scratches - I bought it 2nd hand for $600. As Joe the mechanic once famously commented: "This ain't no cream puff, lady.")
In the summer of 1989, girlontape took off on a historic voyage to visit her bitch sister jack in Colombia... and so she maganimously bequeathed her BITCHIN' CAMARO + her ID to her underage biological sister for the duration.
As a result, while girlontape was busy getting her mind blown on myriad tropical adventures, her kid sis got to, in her own words: "Get into clubs & party away. I actually remember picking up a guy in that car & he said: 'I'm in a hot ride with a hot girl, yeah baby!'"
"And another thing... since we got Obama in office, he owes me."
"What does he owe you?"
"A BITCHIN' CAMARO!"
the dead milkmen
the metropolis recaptured
this story in spanglish
The sheer extremism of the recent Buenos Aires heat wave segued me right into a certain Avenue B studio, whose Chinese slumlady knocked on our doors the first of every month, flanked by a couple of Chinese goodfellas: the first girlCave in girlHistory.
Having just landed in the metropolis from her cocooned small town existence, girlontape was in a constant state of shock and awe: the junkies, dealers & hos waiting and smoking outside the all-night deli... the tiny punk bar around the corner: darker & badder, louder & grungier, filthier & friendlier than any joint that ever was... the ubiquitous DIE YUPPIE SCUM graffiti...
and her beloved - now long-defunct - Fluffy Donut Diner on 54th St. Here she would sit at the horseshoe-shaped formica counter alongside the kinds of people who can't afford New York any more, breakfasting on coffee & cigarettes while reading Henry Miller and Raoul Vaneigem before clocking in at the Italian network ("the slavery of everyday life!") on the 40th floor of a black glass tower, where she dreamed of "freedom from capitalist oppression."
Long-distance conversation with my dad:
-How do you get to the office every day honey?
-On the subway, dad... like the rest of the proletariat.
-The NY subway is a deathtrap! I forbid you to take it ever again!
-How am I supposed to get to work?
-In a cab, of course.
-Uhmmm... I won't make rent if I do that.
-I'll pay for it!
-That's sweet dad, but -
and while she tried to reassure him by ridiculing his fears it was also true that girlontape - though she never in a million years would have admitted as much to her overprotective father - was scared shitless pretty much 24/7.
Summer nights she would lay awake in her stifling 5th-floor walk-up, watching how the moonlight threw the shadows of the bars on the windows across her futon on the floor & hoping they'd withstand the inevitable assault by the inevitable rapist-robber-serial killer lying in wait for her as for every other young woman who dared to brave the metropolis alone: here was the russian roulette any self-respecting grrrl hoping to escape a lifetime of dullness in suburbia had to play -
while in the ragged back yards a junkie hurled violently and a soprano practiced her scales. Mysteriously they would go into their routine at the same time every night, in a counterpoint that girlontape found to be emblematic of the metropolis, its struggle and its gallantry:
art and annihilation, the agony and the ecstasy, the ethereal beauty of the Chrysler piercing the heavens and the Vietnam vets flying the Stars & Stripes upside down in Tompkins Square Park, the armies of cockroaches and the dragon
(in winter gigantic waves of steam come rolling out of the sidewalk grates: "That's the New York dragon," she was told) and indeed it seemed to girlontape that something terrible and marvelous - a treasure or a curse or both, the significance of which she had yet to decipher - must lie coiled within the metropolis' entrails.
"The first two years you just want to get the hell out," the inhabitants explained. "Then you get hooked & never leave. You'll see." "That won't happen to me," girlontape scoffed. "I've got places to go, people to see!"
But as much as she fantasized with symbolically blowing up the media establishment that was her bread and butter (like the Situationists) and then fleeing to Paris to live in a garret and write novels (like Henry Miller) the truth of the matter was that girlontape - shitting bricks, thrilled to the core - was the happiest she'd ever been in her brief, sheltered, nomadic life.
The sheer extremism of the recent Buenos Aires heat wave segued me right into a certain Avenue B studio, whose Chinese slumlady knocked on our doors the first of every month, flanked by a couple of Chinese goodfellas: the first girlCave in girlHistory.
Having just landed in the metropolis from her cocooned small town existence, girlontape was in a constant state of shock and awe: the junkies, dealers & hos waiting and smoking outside the all-night deli... the tiny punk bar around the corner: darker & badder, louder & grungier, filthier & friendlier than any joint that ever was... the ubiquitous DIE YUPPIE SCUM graffiti...
and her beloved - now long-defunct - Fluffy Donut Diner on 54th St. Here she would sit at the horseshoe-shaped formica counter alongside the kinds of people who can't afford New York any more, breakfasting on coffee & cigarettes while reading Henry Miller and Raoul Vaneigem before clocking in at the Italian network ("the slavery of everyday life!") on the 40th floor of a black glass tower, where she dreamed of "freedom from capitalist oppression."
Long-distance conversation with my dad:
-How do you get to the office every day honey?
-On the subway, dad... like the rest of the proletariat.
-The NY subway is a deathtrap! I forbid you to take it ever again!
-How am I supposed to get to work?
-In a cab, of course.
-Uhmmm... I won't make rent if I do that.
-I'll pay for it!
-That's sweet dad, but -
and while she tried to reassure him by ridiculing his fears it was also true that girlontape - though she never in a million years would have admitted as much to her overprotective father - was scared shitless pretty much 24/7.
Summer nights she would lay awake in her stifling 5th-floor walk-up, watching how the moonlight threw the shadows of the bars on the windows across her futon on the floor & hoping they'd withstand the inevitable assault by the inevitable rapist-robber-serial killer lying in wait for her as for every other young woman who dared to brave the metropolis alone: here was the russian roulette any self-respecting grrrl hoping to escape a lifetime of dullness in suburbia had to play -
while in the ragged back yards a junkie hurled violently and a soprano practiced her scales. Mysteriously they would go into their routine at the same time every night, in a counterpoint that girlontape found to be emblematic of the metropolis, its struggle and its gallantry:
art and annihilation, the agony and the ecstasy, the ethereal beauty of the Chrysler piercing the heavens and the Vietnam vets flying the Stars & Stripes upside down in Tompkins Square Park, the armies of cockroaches and the dragon
(in winter gigantic waves of steam come rolling out of the sidewalk grates: "That's the New York dragon," she was told) and indeed it seemed to girlontape that something terrible and marvelous - a treasure or a curse or both, the significance of which she had yet to decipher - must lie coiled within the metropolis' entrails.
"The first two years you just want to get the hell out," the inhabitants explained. "Then you get hooked & never leave. You'll see." "That won't happen to me," girlontape scoffed. "I've got places to go, people to see!"
But as much as she fantasized with symbolically blowing up the media establishment that was her bread and butter (like the Situationists) and then fleeing to Paris to live in a garret and write novels (like Henry Miller) the truth of the matter was that girlontape - shitting bricks, thrilled to the core - was the happiest she'd ever been in her brief, sheltered, nomadic life.
la metropolis retrouvée
este cuento en inglish
Este calor en su extremismo me estuvo llevando cual madeleine climática a cierto monoambiente pedorro en la avenida B cuya dueña china nos tocaba timbre el primero del mes para recaudar el alquiler, escoltada por dos matones: la primera baticueva de la girlHistoria.
Recién llegada de su pueblito (boston), girlontape se asombraba ante el delirio imponente -en esa época über trash- de la metropolis: los junkies, putas y dilers fumando y esperando frente al kiosco de la esquina... el barcito a la vuelta, antro negro súper punk de los que ya no hay más... el graffiti por todos lados DIE YUPPY SCUM...
el fluffy donut diner de la calle 54, donde desayunaba coffee & cigarettes leyendo henry miller y raoul vaneigem antes de subir al piso 40 de una torre de vidrio negro para cumplir horario en la RAI ("esclavitud de la vida diaria!") y seguir soñando con "la libertad".
Conversación larga distancia con mi viejo:
él: "Cómo llegas a la oficina?"
yo: "En subte, pa'... como el resto del proletariado."
él: "El subte de NY es peligrosísimo! No lo tomes más!"
yo: "Y cómo voy a trabajar si no?"
él: "En taxi!"
yo: "Tas loco pa'... no llegaría a fin de mes."
él: "Te lo pago yo!"
Qué ternura! girlontape sonreía de la sobreprotección paterna pero era cierto -aunque jamás lo hubiese admitido en voz alta- que la metropolis le daba terror.
La noche se quedaba despierta mirando las sombras de las rejas en las ventanas que el claro de luna dibujaba en su futón en el piso y tratando de evaluar si serían suficientes para resistir al inevitable asalto del inevitable violador-ladrón-asesino serial, mientras en el pulmón de la manzana detrás de su edificio un junkie vomitaba hasta el alma y una soprano practicaba sus arpeggios:
misteriosamente los dos arrancaban siempre a la misma hora en un contrapunto que a girlontape le parecía de lo más románticamente emblemático. Cuanta valentía, cuanta lucha en la metropolis! El arte y la autodestrucción codo a codo, lo grotesco y lo sublime, fastos y miserias, el Chrysler y los veteranos del vietnam acampados en Tompkins Square, los ejércitos de cucarachas y el dragón
(en invierno salen oleadas gigantes de vapor de las rejas de ventilación en las veredas: "es el dragón de NY" le explicaron) y a girlontape le parecía que sí, en las entrañas de la metropolis latía algo terrible y maravilloso, algo que todavía le quedaba por descifrar.
"Los primeros dos años sólo te queres escapar," le avisaron. "Hasta que te pica el bicho y chau, no salis más."
"Olvidate," declaró girlontape. "Yo no me quedo acá ni loca... tengo cosas para hacer, lugares adonde ir!"
Pero por más que fantaseara con dinamitar simbolicamente el sistema mediático que le daba de comer (como los situacionistas) para luego rajarse a escribir novelas en paris (como henry miller) la verdad de la milanesa es que girlontape -cagandose de miedo, muerta de emoción- estaba chocha como nunca antes lo había sido en su breve, nomádica vida.
Este calor en su extremismo me estuvo llevando cual madeleine climática a cierto monoambiente pedorro en la avenida B cuya dueña china nos tocaba timbre el primero del mes para recaudar el alquiler, escoltada por dos matones: la primera baticueva de la girlHistoria.
Recién llegada de su pueblito (boston), girlontape se asombraba ante el delirio imponente -en esa época über trash- de la metropolis: los junkies, putas y dilers fumando y esperando frente al kiosco de la esquina... el barcito a la vuelta, antro negro súper punk de los que ya no hay más... el graffiti por todos lados DIE YUPPY SCUM...
el fluffy donut diner de la calle 54, donde desayunaba coffee & cigarettes leyendo henry miller y raoul vaneigem antes de subir al piso 40 de una torre de vidrio negro para cumplir horario en la RAI ("esclavitud de la vida diaria!") y seguir soñando con "la libertad".
Conversación larga distancia con mi viejo:
él: "Cómo llegas a la oficina?"
yo: "En subte, pa'... como el resto del proletariado."
él: "El subte de NY es peligrosísimo! No lo tomes más!"
yo: "Y cómo voy a trabajar si no?"
él: "En taxi!"
yo: "Tas loco pa'... no llegaría a fin de mes."
él: "Te lo pago yo!"
Qué ternura! girlontape sonreía de la sobreprotección paterna pero era cierto -aunque jamás lo hubiese admitido en voz alta- que la metropolis le daba terror.
La noche se quedaba despierta mirando las sombras de las rejas en las ventanas que el claro de luna dibujaba en su futón en el piso y tratando de evaluar si serían suficientes para resistir al inevitable asalto del inevitable violador-ladrón-asesino serial, mientras en el pulmón de la manzana detrás de su edificio un junkie vomitaba hasta el alma y una soprano practicaba sus arpeggios:
misteriosamente los dos arrancaban siempre a la misma hora en un contrapunto que a girlontape le parecía de lo más románticamente emblemático. Cuanta valentía, cuanta lucha en la metropolis! El arte y la autodestrucción codo a codo, lo grotesco y lo sublime, fastos y miserias, el Chrysler y los veteranos del vietnam acampados en Tompkins Square, los ejércitos de cucarachas y el dragón
(en invierno salen oleadas gigantes de vapor de las rejas de ventilación en las veredas: "es el dragón de NY" le explicaron) y a girlontape le parecía que sí, en las entrañas de la metropolis latía algo terrible y maravilloso, algo que todavía le quedaba por descifrar.
"Los primeros dos años sólo te queres escapar," le avisaron. "Hasta que te pica el bicho y chau, no salis más."
"Olvidate," declaró girlontape. "Yo no me quedo acá ni loca... tengo cosas para hacer, lugares adonde ir!"
Pero por más que fantaseara con dinamitar simbolicamente el sistema mediático que le daba de comer (como los situacionistas) para luego rajarse a escribir novelas en paris (como henry miller) la verdad de la milanesa es que girlontape -cagandose de miedo, muerta de emoción- estaba chocha como nunca antes lo había sido en su breve, nomádica vida.
girl was so uncool
It's amazing to think just how out of it girlontape used to be. Equally amazing is the fact that she ever caught on. Mostly it's been thanks to her friends, as in:
New York 1994 My friend Tracy's on the phone from the newsroom where she works, sounding sort of numb like people sometimes do when talking about a recent catastrophe: "I can't believe Kurt Cobain just died." So I said "Who's Kurt Cobain?" And that's how I discovered Nirvana. I still treasure my In Utero cd to this day though... don't you?
Chicago 1998 I'm at some blues bar with Peter & all that crowd & someone says "Eddie Vedder just called. He might stop by for a drink." So I said: "Who's Eddie Vedder?" No wonder Peter wanted to kill me as much as he wanted to fuck me. Eddie never showed up, but I'm in love with him now. Aren't you?
LA 2000 Lindsey calls & says "Hey you coming to Perry Farrell's birthday?" and I go "Sure, I guess... who's this guy Perry Farrell?" So there I was partying with Jane's Addiction just prior to their reunion & it all went right over my head, but these days I follow perry on twitter... don't you?
New York 1994 My friend Tracy's on the phone from the newsroom where she works, sounding sort of numb like people sometimes do when talking about a recent catastrophe: "I can't believe Kurt Cobain just died." So I said "Who's Kurt Cobain?" And that's how I discovered Nirvana. I still treasure my In Utero cd to this day though... don't you?
Chicago 1998 I'm at some blues bar with Peter & all that crowd & someone says "Eddie Vedder just called. He might stop by for a drink." So I said: "Who's Eddie Vedder?" No wonder Peter wanted to kill me as much as he wanted to fuck me. Eddie never showed up, but I'm in love with him now. Aren't you?
LA 2000 Lindsey calls & says "Hey you coming to Perry Farrell's birthday?" and I go "Sure, I guess... who's this guy Perry Farrell?" So there I was partying with Jane's Addiction just prior to their reunion & it all went right over my head, but these days I follow perry on twitter... don't you?
like a woman scorned
This one goes out to my weak... inferior... human self:A week ago, when the ultimate hostage exchange finally brought the intramarital war that has taken up way too much of my precious life to an end, thus spake one who, two years ago, saw fit to abandon me on the day of my 42nd birthday for a bimbo half my age:
-So... you're shooting a lot?
-Uh-huh.
-How's it going?
-Uhmmm... it's going pretty good.
-So who's that guy you were with at the gallery?
-You mean like three months ago? My boyfriend.
-Really? How old is he?
-27.
-....
-Don't worry though. He's history.
The look of relief on his face: priceless.
hell hath no fury
Esta por que soy mala... débil... humana:
el otro día cuando, último intercambio de rehenes de por medio, al fin se terminó la guerra intraconyugal que se ha chupado años (demasiados) de mi vida, el que me abandonó a quemarropa el día de mi cumpleaños número 42 por una imbécil de 20ypico me habló así:
-Así que estás sacando muchas fotos?
-Mmmm... sip.
-Y... te está yendo bien?
-Mmmm.... SIP.
-Mirá vos. Y ese chico que estaba con vos en la galería... quién es?
-Mi novio.
-En serio? Cuantos años tiene?
-27.
-....
-Igual despreocupate pa'... ya lo largué.
Su cara de alivio, sin precio.
el otro día cuando, último intercambio de rehenes de por medio, al fin se terminó la guerra intraconyugal que se ha chupado años (demasiados) de mi vida, el que me abandonó a quemarropa el día de mi cumpleaños número 42 por una imbécil de 20ypico me habló así:
-Así que estás sacando muchas fotos?-Mmmm... sip.
-Y... te está yendo bien?
-Mmmm.... SIP.
-Mirá vos. Y ese chico que estaba con vos en la galería... quién es?
-Mi novio.
-En serio? Cuantos años tiene?
-27.
-....
-Igual despreocupate pa'... ya lo largué.
Su cara de alivio, sin precio.
webcam memories part I
érase una vez girlontape jugaba seguido con su webcam. le encantaba su aspecto lo-fi... ruidoso... privo de sofisticación.eran tiempos de guerra, y a girlontape le parecía que la webcam con su medio pixel y su lente pedorro, era su compañera de trinchera ideal.
***
once upon a time girlontape regularly found comfort in her webcam. she liked its noisy, lo-fi, utterly unsophisticated aspects.
they were times of war, and the humble webcam, with its half a pixel and shitty lens, seemed to girlontape to be the ideal comrade in arms.
girl, circa 1982
having just landed in the boston area from another galaxy far far away, sweet sixteen-year-old girlontape was dazed, confused & rather alienated:unjustly trapped in a leafy well-to-do suburb by her well-meaning parents, she loathed the cheery overweight natives, all of whom seemed to be wearing those awful cheery sweaters with little reindeers... little hearts... little xmas trees... and whose favorite greeting was: oh my god!! you're so skinny!!
as a result of which teen girlontape soon developed body-image problems like the rest of 'em. what else? oh yeah.
that year she spent a lot of time in her room having epic self-induced orgasms & longing to do it with a man not a boy & preferably david bowie, smoking cigarettes, writing a lot of angst-ridden crap & listening to her favorite tune,
then got rid of her cherry with a boy not a man, learned to smoke pot like an american, fell in love with muscle cars & got raving drunk on scotch whisky at her first rock 'n roll concert.
ps. photo of girlontape by a friend of my parents' who took us out on his boat... can't remember his name but they were a very nice family... of course i didn't appreciate them at the time nor did i ever thank him for this amazing portrait, the only one i have of myself at that age.
pps. according to the family historian aka my sister... turns out these friends were Argentines of Italian descent. of course!
girl, circa 2002
era el mejor de los tiempos, era el peor de los tiempos: muerta de libido hacia un impresentable de camisas brooks brothers, girlontape se tira a una pileta en Southampton, donde la turboPerra de su princesa hindu le saca esta pic.era la época de las creencias y de la incredulidad, de los cuentos de nabokov y de felix + miss kittin en los auricolares así: sweet seduction in a magazine/endless pleasure in a limousine...
foto por la escritora y ensayista kisa lala
the best new year's letter ever... i'm just waiting on a friend
I couldn't help but think of you at midnight and remembering that blessed New Year we spent together in 1999. I believe we saw the sun rise twice.
And, of course, the weird one that followed in 2000 with that "no show" party and the dungeon of decadence on lower Broadway (live automatic weapons and sex slaves in red jump suits).
Did you know someone made a film about that party. They had to fly in the Pseudo.com guy for the premier because he lives in Northern California and only had $25 to his name. In return for attending, he just wanted an appointment with a dentist. Incredible...
Your photographs are beautiful. I check girlontape often. I hope you will come to NYC sometime soon.
All my love,
P
And, of course, the weird one that followed in 2000 with that "no show" party and the dungeon of decadence on lower Broadway (live automatic weapons and sex slaves in red jump suits).
Did you know someone made a film about that party. They had to fly in the Pseudo.com guy for the premier because he lives in Northern California and only had $25 to his name. In return for attending, he just wanted an appointment with a dentist. Incredible...
Your photographs are beautiful. I check girlontape often. I hope you will come to NYC sometime soon.
All my love,
P
girlPast calling
my friend peter posted this clip on FB
and suddenly I was back in New York, 1988,
with my friend olof (in the picture below)
& lucy in the sky with diamonds,
poguing with the masses on st. patrick's day...
yes I was there too!
photo by girlontape
and suddenly I was back in New York, 1988,
with my friend olof (in the picture below)
& lucy in the sky with diamonds,
poguing with the masses on st. patrick's day...
yes I was there too!
photo by girlontape
today in girlHistory
• La artista plástica, curadora y guru fabiana barreda me invita a asistir a su clínica de obra. Llego en perfecto estilo girlontape-odia-a-todo-el-mundo-y-sólo-quiere-volver-a-su-galaxia-muy-muy-lejana: la cara hinchada, despeinada y con la ropa sucia.
Resulta que soy la artista invitada. Me toca hablar de mi proceso creativo, responder preguntas sobre el mismo, y tratar de no mirar mientras los presentes toman nota de lo que digo. La paso bomba, por supuesto. De pronto girlontape vuelve a pensar que Buenos Aires, quizás....hmmmmmmmmm.
• Ayer vino dasbald a buscar a tricky. Resulta que hoy es el cumple de dasbald. Yo, aliviada por que: a) tricky encontró dueños súper copados y b) girlontape no tiene que salir corriendo a buscarle un regalo a dasbald.
• La cineasta francesa catherine breillat me pide como amiga en feisbuk; catherine breillat es una de mis SÚPER HEROINAS FOREVER.
Resulta que soy la artista invitada. Me toca hablar de mi proceso creativo, responder preguntas sobre el mismo, y tratar de no mirar mientras los presentes toman nota de lo que digo. La paso bomba, por supuesto. De pronto girlontape vuelve a pensar que Buenos Aires, quizás....hmmmmmmmmm.
• Ayer vino dasbald a buscar a tricky. Resulta que hoy es el cumple de dasbald. Yo, aliviada por que: a) tricky encontró dueños súper copados y b) girlontape no tiene que salir corriendo a buscarle un regalo a dasbald.
• La cineasta francesa catherine breillat me pide como amiga en feisbuk; catherine breillat es una de mis SÚPER HEROINAS FOREVER.
first love, last rites
I went to Wellesley, he went to Yale. We lived & breathed Literature. He played the piano: Liszt & Chopin. I played records: Bowie & Bunnymen. I was 18, he was 20 the day he asked me to marry him & I said yes, then he took me for a spin in his dad's Rolls down shady Connecticut lanes.
Once before it all went to hell he said: "Relationships are like two stones that wear each other down until both become smooth. My metaphor Fanny - you can't use it." "I won't," I promised, wishing I'd come up with it myself.
When we ran into each other again years later he was living in Spanish Harlem with his Puerto Rican girlfriend who turned him on to heroin, and that's when I took this picture.
***
Yo cursaba Wellesley, él Yale. Nuestra vida era La Literatura. El tocaba el piano: Liszt y Chopin. Yo pasaba vinilos: Bowie y Bunnymen.
Yo tenía 18, él 20 el día que me pidió casamiento y yo le dije que sí y luego me paseó en el Rolls de su viejo por los caminos sombreados del Connecticut.
Una vez me dijo: "Las relaciones son como dos piedras puliendose entre sí hasta que cada una se vuelve lisa. Mi metáfora Fanny - no la podes usar." "No la voy a usar," le prometí, lamentando no haberla inventada yo misma.
Al rato se pudrió todo y cuando nos volvimos a cruzar años después él estaba viviendo en Harlem con su novia puertoriqueña quien lo inició a la heroina, y ahí le saqué esta foto.
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