Monday Night's Match at Bastille Cafe and Bar, Seattle

ROUND ONE
Round One
Round One (cont)
Round One (cont.2)
Hendricks Martini w/ an Orange Twist
and Monk's Habit (Calvados, Aquavit, Benedictine & Antica Formula)

ROUND TWO
Round TwoRound Two (cont.)
2009 Domaine Dupeuble, Beaujolais 
and Two Beers Evo IPA

Cheers,
ballard bastille cafe booze
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the weekend report: LA edition

 My sisters, niece, and mamma.
 Southern California Sunset as we drive into the city.







I returned last night to the most gorgeous Seattle drizzle. My parched skin thanked me for returning home, despite an epic weekend celebrating my sisters and their birthdays.  We started Saturday with an awesome brunch - so much food and laughter!  Then we headed down to El Cid, a flamenco dinner theater. I don't think I expected it to be as authentic and transporting as it was.  We stayed at the restaurant until it became a club a few hours later and danced ourselves sick.  I also got to snuggle Clara a bit, though it's never enough.  I also happily taught her to exclaim, "Oh Man!" which sounds more like "Oh, maaa" coming from her, but still, she's pretty darn cool.

Looking forward to a night alone with my love, cuddling in front of a fire - or a beer. Either will do.
Monday, check.
clara family los angeles
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back to california, where it's warm*

Headed back to my roots this weekend, thought you might enjoy a photo of my youth:


Oh, to go back to the days where I longed for hips. I think I wished too hard, because holy gudunk-y-dunk, I got em.

Moving On.

I have unofficially officially decided that listening to David Bowie is the only way to commute to work on Friday morning.  Especially if that particular Friday includes jet-setting to Los Angeles to stay with my sister (whose name I will bless until my dying day for introducing me to Bowie) for her birthday, kiss Clara's sweet cheeks (Teresa recently mentioned that they tasted like donuts!) and visit with my mom and other sister (also her birthday!) over a delicious luncheon.  It will be a whirlwind trip, but there's rumor of a Flamenco Dinner Theater.  (What does one wear to such a place?)



Think DB would mind if I borrowed his suit?

Make a memory, dolls.  Happy Weekend.




*Song title by Low
david bowie family sister
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date night

photo


She keeps taking hits.
Her beauty fleets and shies.
Her jeans don't fit, her face scarred.
She weeps openly and freely, but they both know
[by jove, they have both learned
that as much as they both want to let him swoop in
and romance her back to a thin, young place]
That she must do the work.

She started with him in tandem, driving.
They progressed to one hand holding the seat, training wheels trepidatiously removed.
But still, he was there,
Ready in an instant to shatter the facade of her independence,
If she should need it.

She's now scared;
It's time to take a spin around the cul-de-sac
And she knows he'll let go.
And she knows that the faster and more steady she becomes,
the less she'll notice.

She is guilty of relying lazily on his perfect balance,
his stalwart legs.

Out of love and hate,
with tears washing her face
she man ups.
Does it solo.
Tries not to look back.
Tries like hell to make him proud.

One night, she tells him over a bottle of wine how she's loosing ground.
And needs him to put the safety back on.

He whispered in her ear as they fall asleep,
"How did I ever find you?"

And the words, like caresses and deep breaths,
Wash her cells, her sad blood, anew.
And even if she had to swallow the fierce pain of dependence,
decides that tonight, just one night
she can borrow his vision again.

She slumbers to visions of ribbons flying free on the handlebars and eyes closed in belief and bliss.

Without the good, good love from another human, we cannot love ourselves.
It's not your fault.
date night dates dependence
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sunday















I've felt very quiet lately, which isn't terribly rare for my external expressions.
This time it is internal quiet.
A sobriety, a hibernation, a still.
Lock-jawed.

There is a creative shut-down.  Instead, I am taking in.
When I cannot write a words, I read.
When I cannot take a photo, I look.
When I cannot fashion an outfit, I naked.

Perhaps I am meant to be listening more,
Perhaps I am too isolated.  Blank.  Disconnected.

Sometimes speaking well, accurately, freely, casually
Is the hardest damn task I face in the day.
And the challenge of connecting with another human being is daunting enough to keep me in bed.

And then Sunday comes along, and I can sit on the laurels of my well-crafted love, finish a book, forgive myself for crippling introversion, and just feel good.

Oh Sunday, we'd never make it without you.
en images poetry reading
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