In the Pieces

*Blow Torch Chicken Art Ignites the Venus of Willendorf

2009-06-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

Ever been drawn in by someone and not known why? Have you ever been irrevocably changed in a parking lot? Were there blow torches and chicken and art involved?

I've actually had some pretty notable parking lot encounters. I met Majid in a parking lot when I was a virgin. When we were dating he tried to change that in another parking lot outside his restaurant. Who knows if he would have been successful, because we were stopped by the local Sheriff's department—at 3:00 a.m. The officer noticed my car with fogged-up windows rolling backwards from one side of the parking lot to the other. We had accidentally released the emergency brake during our parking lot ardor. That was pretty momentous, but it didn't really change me irrevocably—I eventually stopped dating Majid and stayed a virgin for awhile longer. In the parking lot of a coffee shop I worked at once, a married customer emphatically tried to persuade me to join him at a hotel. There was a heartbreaking Spaniard who seduced me from a car park on an island in a sea, but that's a different story—one I've already written and archived. What intrigues me presently like nothing has in a very long time is the face and presence of a man I can't forget. A man I don't know and will never see again. And yet I feel like I've always known him or at least I have been waiting for what he would show me about myself in a parking lot. Because of my serendipitous crush from afar, I also became enchanted with performance art and new ways of expressing things I've always thought about.

When I saw him I was in rehearsals for a play that is best described as Saturday Night Live meets the History Channel. It was for the second show I've done with Beyond the Proscenium Productions at the Wilkerson Theatre next to California Stage. The theatre is in what I can only describe as this great little artist's enclave in Midtown Sacramento. There are a few theatres, artist galleries, and a poetry center all surrounding a gravely parking lot where empty paint cans, lumber, and assorted discarded objects decorate its boundaries.And one night performance artists arrived at our little enclave. Gallery SoToDo, "a non-profit organization whose goal is to promote international cultural exchanges within the context of Performance Art", rented our theatre for a three-day international congress for Performance Art. Gallery SoToDo says, "Performance Art is defined by the elements of time, space, variability and zeitgeist. It is an everyday experience. It is unbound by a beginning or an end. It happens."

I saw him. And it happened to me. I was enchanted and then transfixed and enthralled and awakened. And the performance is still going on, long after he and this band of traveling artists has left our little theatre parking lot. But how they used the body in their art stays with and transforms me.

I've always been interested in the use and image of the body in performance. I have everyday issues with my own body—rubenesque (i.e, voluptuous, zaftig, BBW, fat, large, etc—pick your poison or elixir) in a rail-thin world to say the least. I've been thin and I've been unthin. And I've experienced love and lust, adoration and humliation, and hope and loss on the pound pendulum. As a performer I often find myself trying to justify my image against the theatrically-scripted image of the body as well as society's idea of the body—they are rarely in agreement. As a sexual woman I've felt marginalized, fetishized, objectified, and even desired as a modern-day Venus of Willendorf. And it's the disagreement between the image of the theatrically-scripted body, society's desires for and of my body, and my personal experiences that inform a lot of my writing and exploration as an artist.

There is art in this disagreement. And this group of performance artists has excavated a little of me, unearthed and edged me one step closer to figuring out how I want to express that art and my feelings. I like discordance in a world that perfers conformity and homogenization. Some of the art I saw unabashedly used the body to express and create art. One of the artists coated his naked body in what appeared to be black paint as he burned pieces of paper with phrases on them with a blow torch. I don't know what the narrative of the piece was and it didn't matter to me. I indulged in the images alone. I saw the juxtaposition of the natural topography of the human form with the need to control communication, by creating it and then destroying it. I might have missed the intent of the artist, but what I took away is valuable nonetheless.

And the face, the man that drew me in to this art in the first place performed on another night. A night I'm not normally at the theatre when not in performance, I came hoping to see him. To see his art. And I did. As I entered the gravely parking lot he was there, and I gave a shy, "Hello". Not long after, he and two other men performed. Again, while I may not have correctly deduced their narrative of the piece, I was viscerally moved by the images, the sounds, and even the smell of their art. One man sat down wearing a motorcycle helmet with a BBQ-like stove attached to it. It was a functioning BBQ with flames worthy of any choice cut of meat. The other two men defeathered a chicken, butchered it, and cooked it on top of the stove-wearing man's head. Once the chicken was cooked, the men offered it to the audience, myself included. The primal images—fire, the origin of the food, the journey from animal to flame, and how it was manipulated by man to be consumed by man was moving. And the line between audience and art was blurred by the offering of chicken. This performance reminds us that the audience is as much a part of the art and the performance as the art and performers themselves. I was moved by a man with a blow torch who cooked a chicken in a parking lot on another man's head.

This will surely make my friend Marcos say his oft repeated mantra, "Oh Lord, Luthy, you're a wannabe artsy bohemian." He'll probably add, "would you be as attracted and interested if he had a bic lighter and a can of Spam?!" Probably, yes I would. He has more knowledge of my eccentric attractions than almost anyone. He's witnessed it and I can't dispute his authority on the subject of me and my predilections. I can't explain my attractions. I only know that the strongest ones are the most intangible—they have a chemistry unique to Kellie. My friend is sure to think that I'll want to run off and join the circus to make art and that I will write a play about blow torches and chicken; that I'll find a way to make it erotic and poetic. Maybe he's not entirely wrong. Maybe he's entirely right.

I have these images flashing through my mind's eye now. And whether they manifest in poetry, theatre, or something more abstract and daring is yet to be known. But they have been cultivated these past few days watching art trespass through our rehearsal and take over a parking lot normally used for backstage exits and entrances. Sometimes we have to reinvent the stage, shift the proscenium arch, and maybe even burn down that fourth wall and consume it.

Irrevocable changes happen in parking lots where men wield blow torches and cook chicken in orange jumpsuits only once in a blue moon. I'm happy and grateful that the cosmos ventured into my orbit for once.

Sometimes you are going through your life and someone trespasses, or so it seems at first, right through your rehearsal. I only know him from his hat, a few exchanged glances, and one shy hello. And I've realized he didn't trespass our rehearsal, he became part of my rehearsal as an artist and a person. And that is an irrevocable change I needed. Oh...and he really was that sexy. That kind of matters too.Isn't it strange what a random glance, a person's aura, the inexplicable attraction you feel towards them, and a little blow torch and fire can inspire? I'm sure he wouldn't remember me or feel the same as me and I don't know where he is, but I thank him. I'll take a sexy chicken-cooking muse like him any day!

**Said blow torch chicken artist has read this blog and responded that he was thankful that his art inspired and that he was always worried that he "did it for only himself and not others."

Finnish Jewelry From Whiskey Drinking Swedes and Namibian Scam Artists

2009-05-10T16:52:00.000-07:00

When there is a full moon out and you're invited near midnight to come over to a friend's house, you don't question it—you go. Because you know it's better than playing Mafia Wars home alone or organizing your bookshelf on a Saturday night. I found my friends in the back yard—four of which were semi-naked gay men lounging in a jacuzzi, the others gorgeous Spaniards. I know what you're thinking—you wish you knew the people I do. Well, you should. They somehow bring out the—regaling side of me.

My best friend told me to pull up a chair around the jacuzzi, "Luthy, grab a chair." Oh, yes, this circle of friends calls me Luthy—an explanation worthy of a story all its own. Well, as my ass touched the white plastic chair, my friend said a little too late, "Not that one Luthy it's broke—crash—nnn!" There were concrete plant holders and steps behind me that I could have cracked my skull open on had I fallen backwards when I fell. Instead, I went down like a building that had been carefully demolished—straight down with no collateral damage. And it happened in slow motion. And it was funny. My friend Sara, one of the most beautiful Spanish women I know laughed, Marcos screamed, "Are my flowers ok?" and Oscar came over, "Are you o.k. Luthy? Luthy why don't you get off the ground, Luthy can't I help you up? Don't you want to get up Luthy?" And I was laughing and decided I quite liked the ground anyway. Sara and I couldn't stop laughing, Andy, Danny, and Ismael were politely quiet, Oscar was concerned about me sitting on the ground and Marcos was distraught that his new plants might have been injured. I love my friends.

I joked that the chair was the story of my life—bad things happen to me...and they tend to be funny. That of course provoked Marcos into asking me to tell some of the more tragically funny stories that have happened in my life. So after my near death experience in front of the jacuzzi full of half-naked gay men, I was urged to regale them with my romantic woes. But some of the highlights? A teaser? Let's see.

Max stole my ATM card and $20 after an...encounter.
Same night, different date, a chef with the last name of Baker taught me how to shoot pool, only to bite me later in the Tenderloin as his cat ate food off the window sill and transvestite hookers fought over turf outside his window.
Burger boy from Sweden gave me a necklace from Finland with the best of Finnish cubic zirconium. And during a week-long stay with me he drank whiskey like it was water. Oh and he decided to wear my pants and follow me around the apartment, and... Oh did I mention I was engaged to him for awhile?
The most gorgeous man I have met yet in this life being cruel to me on our only date. Not a complete loss, he was that gorgeous and inspired one of my first published poems. menthol-medicated cream
Discovering that the dashing British man I met on eHarmony was in fact a man from Namibia who wanted me to send him money. And when I refused and told him he was a scam artist, he basically threatened to rape and kill everyone who ever knew me.

This is just the beginning folks. And just like I did with model boy, I'm turning this strangely tragic and yet funny karma that follows me into art. That chair is a visual metaphor for my romantic entanglements—I fall down, I get hurt, I cry, I get back up, I laugh, I make art.

Sara said maybe it's something I've done—karma—to have earned all of this bad luck. Or maybe, it's my muse and my opportunity for insight and art. And besides that...sad as these stories may start out—in the end, I get to make people laugh and they appreciate their own love and life. Some of us get true love. Others get to make people realize how lucky they truly are.

Bring it on world. And stay tuned for more: Eduardo from Panama, Loz from an island in the sea, the McNuggets-in-the cemetary-Greek-drummer, shaved-leg biker, married stalker, money-offering Jose ($500 no less), Darwin, various marriage proposals that included goats, sadistic librarians, Adam from Puerto Rico, Tino, Joán from Holland, Majid and the Sheriff outside the pizza parlor, the men from the coffee shop, the German tourist who wanted to photograph me, the Russian man who bought me cookies because he wanted to paint me...

Joy Remembers an Angel

2009-04-22T16:01:00.000-07:00

I was a hopeful. But also a little down on myself tonight as I headed out for my evening walk around Capitol Park. That old saying, "a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step" was cliché cluttering my head. This is one long, mother-pheasant plucking journey I have to say! It's a lot more steps to me losing weight and feeling pretty, who knows how many steps to finding love, and many more steps to me maybe fulfilling my dream of making good theatre for a living.

But the spark of hope I carried with me was knowing how much I wanted it—at least the theatre part. A few years ago I started with even more steps to push through. I wanted to finish my undergrad degree in theatre finally. I worked full time, averaged 19 units a quarter at UC Davis and did shows in the evening for two years. I lived on 4 hours of sleep a night and endless cans of Diet Rockstar. And I graduated. So, as much as the cliché cluttered my head, I knew the journey was even longer a few years ago. There has been progress.

But was I really going in the right direction? Should I pursue my graduate degree in theatre? Do I belong in theatre at all? I love it. I want it badly, but I’m one of those silly people that keeps asking for a sign. Just give me a sign I’m an actor, that I belong in the theatre, etcetera dramatic indulgent etcetera.

So I’m finishing my second lap around Capitol Park, and I’m sweaty and ugly and tired and still a little down even with the endorphins. Madonna’s Ray of Light fades up on my iPod. It’s a song that I think I’ll hear in my invisible soundtrack someday if I really do realize my calling in theatre—because every time I step in a theatre I feel like I just got home. As my call of thunder rumbled underneath, this woman walking towards me was staring at me. She stopped and urged my attention and mouthed something I couldn’t hear. I pressed stop on my iPod.

And she said again, “Are you…are you an actor?”
I shyly said, “Yes.”
She said, “Were you in Judas Iscariot?”
Proudly, “Yes, yes I was. I had a small part—”
“I remember you, you were an angel.”

She proceeded to tell me how important the show was to her and how much she enjoyed it. After seeing it she bought the play and the book the director mentioned A Jesuit Priest On Broadway. She said she saw Judas Iscariot once and loved it so much that she came back on a night it was sold out but, “Your stage manager, the little nice fella, he got me in and found me a seat.”

She then asked me, “Is all theatre in Sacramento that good? Everyone was so good! Everyone, it was such a great ensemble. I'm new to the area so it's all I know of theatre here.” She continued, “Have you worked with that group before?” I told her that I had never worked with that group before and that’s part of what drew me to audition for the show. I wanted to work with new people. I told her that it was one of the best theatrical experiences I have ever had. I told her, “On and off the stage, there was great energy with everyone.” She remarked how that reminded her of what the priest says in the book about his experience with the original cast, “and it makes you wonder about that show.” She asked if I was going to work with the group again, and I said I hoped so. She smiled, put her hand out and said, “Oh by the way, I’m Joy. Thank you so much for doing the show.”

“No, thank you Joy. Thank you for supporting local theatre. Thank you Joy.” She left with a friendly smile.

I put my earphones back in, wiped the sweat off my brow and repeated her first words,

“Are you an actor?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

In turn, an angel remembers joy. I answered her question without thinking. Not sure now who was the angel tonight. But I think I got my sign. Answered my questions. So I'll continue—step, step, step.....

Darwin Thinks I Need a Mate

2009-04-09T15:20:00.000-07:00

If you have any intimate knowledge of the strange things (aka men) that happen to me...and I think only me, then this is just another addition to the growing list. And mind you, said list includes a Greek drummer telling me on our first and only date that he likes to eat Chicken McNuggets while visiting his grandmother...in the cemetery.

So, tonight, after a lovely dinner at Kru with a new friend I went home and put on the tennies and iPod and went on a jaunt around Fremont Park to get some steps. Just a few times around the park would put me over 10k for the day and it was a nice night and I had new music and a bounce in my step. About my fourth time around the park, this man appeared out of nowhere and tried to get my attention. In the split second I had to decide what to do, I felt it best to just confront the guy.

He put his hands up acknowledging that I was on defense. He said, "I just want some tobacco. You got any?" I told him no and started to walk away. He followed me a few steps and apologized for scaring me and he said, "I understand, you a lady and you just never know. They got that missing girl down south."

Note: putting me at ease and making me think you're not going to attack or rob me doesn't include bringing up missing children!

Then he proceeded to show me his student ID (mind you I think he was about 48ish) and then his other ID. "See, I'm Darwin, I ain't going to hurt you." Oh, I guess that settles it--men named Darwin don't hurt people. And he kept covering up the pictures anyway.

He assured me he didn't want to "bother me." I said, "Well, I know better don't I?" That my friends and family would be upset with me if they knew I was walking alone at night. He said, "You just so pretty. You shouldn't be walking alone at night. You too beautiful. You know what you need? You need a mate!"

And then he proceeded to look me up and down and suck air between his tongue and teeth. "Yep, you need a mate to waalllk with you!" Then he grabbed my right hand and kissed it!

Wtf?

I'm really starting to be concerned with the fates. Because at dinner, I told my dining companion that one time while walking down J Street, this guy liked my "perfume" so much that he followed me. He told me he couldn't believe that I wasn't married. Then he grabbed my hand and got down on his knees and said he'd be happy to do it. He said, "Come on...we humans just animals, we could go to the bushes and just fuck!"

And tonight Darwin! Homeless-in-need-of-tobacco-student Darwin? And don't think that the Darwin/evolution connection is lost on me. There might not have been finches present, but there was certainly variation. And non-selection!

Yep. I sure know how to attract them. He asked if he could walk with me. I told him thank you, but that I preferred listening to my music. And as I walked off he watched my ass and made the hmm-mmm sound. And I turned on my iPod and "Genie in a Bottle" came on.

Darwin thinks I need a mate. Darwin is right. And I wish it wasn't Darwin near that first smell of jasmine in spring under the stars, I wish it was you. With your lips and skin on mine.

Seafood Soup Fun, Bellies, and a Berm

2008-08-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

Ever have your book club meet in the shady part of town to discuss Japanese literature while enjoying the culinary arts from the kitchen of a 24-hour card room/casino? I have...and if you ever want to do the same, or just need a place to go at 3:00 am for a cup of Seafood Soup Fun or Old Fashioned Spaghetti...or hell...both if it's been that kind of night (because sometimes it is that kind of night), go to Capitol Casino Card Room on N 16th in Downtown Sacramento.

I had selected Haruki Murakami's After Dark for my second turn in the book club. The book takes place in the underbelly of Tokyo in the hours after midnight when prostitutes and shady office workers roam the streets while skinny saxophone players drink milk and flirt with bookish girls in Denny's restaurants. It's a gem...really...it is. That pause and my need to reassure you tells me I should share with you the back story of my first book club choice and why I feel the need to justify my selections.

There is one in every group. I'm the one in my book club. When it's the turn of "the one", the group shrugs their collective shoulders to their cheeks and lip-curls their collective Billy Idol worthy sneer. They fear what the one will choose next. I have a reputation. And I've been punished for it. I've chosen books that are...well...not liked...and sometimes not even finished. Yes, I'm the bane of the book club.

My first choice was Snow by Orhan Pamuk. While I appreciated his painterly prose and literary devices...my friends disliked the slow drift of what they said was..."torture by Orhan." In our group, the person who selects the book also makes arrangements for a discussion and venue, usually dinner at a restaurant, and runs the evening with questions and food for thought. For Snow I chose Cafe Morocco on Alhambra Blvd in Midtown Sacramento. I wanted to bring life to our food-for-thought discussions and match the restaurant venue with the theme and culture of the book. And though my book was not well received, a tradition was born in the book club and meetings have since been crafted with care to create an overall experience. For What is the What by Dave Eggers we went to an Ethiopian restaurant, Addis Ababa and ate enjera with our firfir. Ahhh....books and the taste and sound of new words.

Insert my sound segue here. Not long before inflicting Snow on the group I had been introduced to the word "berm". I had never heard it before and soon learned it was a mound of earth (or even snow) that often serves as a fortification of some sort. But to me, the word berm, sounds like a place where you are sent for punishment. I jokingly started threatening one of my book club friends, who calls herself Arcane, that I would send her to the berm when she told me she didn't really care for Star Wars . OK...whatever book club calamity I create...to me not caring for Star Wars is worthy of being "sent to the berm." And so, "to the berm with you..." has often been invoked ever since as punishment.

When we met to discuss Snow I was greeted with what can be best described as castigation via a book club diorama. Arcane and her accomplice, who I call Closet Blue, had sent me to the berm, a snow berm, for my book choice. As we discussed how much they hated the book over couscous and baba ganooj while the belly dancer shook her belly in our faces, my gnomish picture stared back at me from the snow berm they made from cotton balls and book club rancor.

Of course I was nervous about my sophomore selection for book club—my friends are a little unforgiving of my literary tastes and I was facing book club banishment. So...if they didn't like the book again, I had better deliver on the themed venue to at least evoke what we read through taste and experience. For After Dark, I needed a restaurant and/or venue that matched the theme or locale of the book. I needed to find a 24-hour underbelly kind of place that would attract seedy underbelly kind of characters. By now you've noticed I like the word underbelly. And while I didn't want us to eat underbelly, I wanted us to experience it. And I bring you back to where I started, Capitol Casino Card Room on N 16th in Downtown Sacramento.

When would any of us ever go to a card room in the seedy part of town and be able to select from a range of menu items? All while discussing a surreal Japanese book? The card room menu has everything from Seafood Soup Fun to Salisbury Steak. There is even the 8 Treasures Tofu Bowl—what kind of treasure might you find in it? Strangely to us, the treasure includes assorted meat and seafood. We stayed away from the Treasured Tofu and couldn't really anticipate with ease how fun Seafood Soup Fun really could be. If you have to market seafood as fun...it's best to stay away from it.

And there we were, Arcane, Closet Blue and the rest of the book club, being suspiciously watched by the kitchen cooks, the server, and the transient clientele as we discussed After Dark. The entire group didn't give me a shrug or sneer, but they did give a quizzical but demanding, "What???" about the book. I wasn't successful again. Curses! They even threatened to frame my berm with a TV box (you have to read the book to get the reference...my way to get people to read what I think is a good book).

If you have been banishéd (yes that's a Shakespearean syllable), know you are not alone. Continue to choose books that you are interested in even if the group will chastise you and maybe even berm you. Being bermed makes you stronger—it gives you character. Just make sure you can offer a different and fun place to discuss your book. Be it underbelly and Seafood Soup Fun or belly dancing and baba ganooj—at least everyone can enjoy the taste of the book if not the story. Just be careful how you incorporate any kind of belly.

Disco and the Furry Bike

2008-07-12T23:38:00.000-07:00

Sounds like the code names for a comic strip crime-fighting duo doesn't it? Or a 70s Starsky and Hutch wannabe partnership.

Disco: Disco here. Caught the dealer near the gallery. Copy Furry Bike.
Furry Bike: Furry Bike here. Copy Disco. Roger and out.
Disco: Who's Roger?
Furry Bike: Wait....What?

But no...it was just one of the many sights of Second Saturday...Sacramento (rid myself of a preposition in favor of end-of-sentence alliteration. It's a choice. I'm going with it.)

Sacramento needed Second Saturday like disco needed hip-hop to come along. Sacramento used to be as entertaining as the sound of sweaty polyester and the art of feathered bangs and Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss. Well...actually I did like the lip gloss. But I digress. The city is turning urban, with art and people, and food, and places like Lounge on 20, and a reason to enjoy it besides the trees and a Delta breeze on a too-hot night. And I'm living right in the middle of it on Q and 16th.

The art galleries stuck it out when it wasn't an event that was highly attended. I remember being the only one in a gallery on several second Saturdays years ago. Now...you bump into people everywhere. And sometimes the art and the show is outside the galleries. Watch the people and let the texture of the sound in the air dance across the asphalt canvas. There are bongos on one corner and the next is a cello and hip hop worthy rhythm.

We bought Obama '08 stickers, saw guitar cases being painted yellow, joined what seemed to be a parade of people parading for....well I'm not sure for what...but it was fun and it was parade-like. We waved. People cheered us on. Isn't that what happens at parades?

We saw art. We saw people who are walking art. We saw bikes turned into art with a hot glue gun and disco balls...and it's friend was of the furry kind. There was even a guy who strapped his paintings to his art and rode around.

There are people of every color, many languages, families, single people, old people, strollers, wheel chairs, women in really high heels, art lovers and people finally proud of something intriguing and fun.

I will add that at the end of my urban art walk....just a few blocks away as I arrived home I saw a bike strangely unattended near the front lawn of my midtown Victorian apartment. It was a night of bikes it seemed. But this one didn't don disco balls or blue fur. But...wait...what did I see next?

A man peeing in my front yard.

I know what you're thinking. Maybe he had too much carrot juice from the woman selling vegan goodies on L street. The really weird thing though...besides finding a man peeing in my front yard after a night of art walk? He apologized. We chatted. And then he teased me...

Peeing Bike Boy: You're just jealous you can't whip it out and take a stand-up pee yourself.
Me: Maybe you're right bike boy....maybe I am a hater—
Peeing Bike Boy: Don't hate...congratulate.

And then he rode off into the night. Why...oh...why is every man I meet either married, gay...or a man who pees in front lawns? In this case...he was a gay man who pees in front lawns and if California doesn't amend the state constitution this Fall....he could be a married gay man who pees in front lawns. Let's hope that's the case.

It was such a good night...that even Peeing Bike Boy didn't ruin my new found awe at Sacramento finally getting culture right. So...I'll take a little pub(l)ic urination as long as there is art and furry bikes that kiss disco bikes on hot summer nights.

Tranny Kabuki Nuns From Outer Space

2008-06-28T22:42:00.001-07:00

There comes a time in everyone's life that a break from the sadness of relationships, the mendacity of politics, the frayed threads of consumerism and just the down right doldrums and blues is needed.

Late on a Friday night I was in need of a break from such weariness of spirit and broken heart. My suggestion to anyone who suffers as I did:

Go to the Castro during Pride weekend. Actually go anytime. But during Pride there is that little bit of something extra that will make you forget about that estranged loved one and whiskey supplemented kinds of sadness.

I spent Saturday in the Castro with two former classmates. We found Nirvana and ate noodles with elephants and buddhas amidst giant leaves and bamboo. Our server gave us seperate checks (this truly must be Nirvana) and she had really cool stomach tattoos. Oh...but the relief had only just begun.

We met happy people smoking "pipes" around my car who waved and smiled and seemed like they might be elves during the winter months they were so jolly and good hearted.

We were jostled by larger than life Asian transvestites, flirted with by Tranny Kabuki Nuns from outer space, saw awfully pretty boys dancing in windows, pet the dog of the buffest New Jersey Gay men you've ever met who were just looking for the best tasting slice, saw toys worthy of Sumo status, marveled at men in white go-go boots and pink thongs...and nearly used our feather-boa super human powers to stop a fight.

I found my break from the sadness....and I found more than a break. I found love and freedom and tolerance and jubilation. And this isn't found here just one weekend out of the year. It's here all the time and is normal and sane and beautiful.

Oh...and we ate Hot Cookies on the way home.

Go. Find your own hot cookie and Tranny Kabuki Nun from Outer Space when you're torn apart....it's better than any remedy or drug or pillow to cry in. I'm still sad....but now I have memories and something else to attach to a weekend that might have been spent just crying in bed.

PS...Did I mention the petition to have a sewage plant named after George Bush? Well.....they are taking signatures on the corner of Castro and 17th.

Pieces of Murakami

2008-06-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

After Dark by Haruki Murakami

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
I really enjoyed this book. It didn't keep me on the edge of my seat like some books but it is staying with me well after having finished it like any Murakami does. Perhaps I'm attaching my own estranged relationship with my sister to my experience reading the book. Or maybe it's my own inner feeling of dread that I'm attaching to it...my inner cell-phone ringing and I know if I answer it the voice will say...."you're not going to get away with it." Or maybe it's because I just love the attention to seemingly regular and mundane images or things like coffee cups on tables in a Denny's.

Ultimately....like a lot of things I love...it's the intangible. Pure chemistry. This book and this writer have it. Murakami is a sensual writer.

I do feel this book is a little like sorbet in the middle of a very succulent meal. It cleanses the palate between other grander and greater tastes. But it's not tasteless. It has the subtle and sweet taste of cool blackberries or fresh mango. Just right when you need it.

Murakami is so very skilled and sublte and sleek and brilliant. I fell in love with his writing when I read "Kafka on the Shore" and am certainly a devotee after reading this sleek and short piece of art.

View all my reviews.

Miracle Fish

2008-06-08T12:17:00.000-07:00

Reviews were rare for my second effort in playwriting. If you missed it, Miracle Fish is a play about how we often don't make decisions for ourselves. It's about filtering our decisions and using objects and belief systems to do the work we should be doing ourselves. Think Magic 8 Balls, Jesus Fish, Cracker Jacks, and thunder. The play has a cast of 5 characters, 1 female and 4 males.

Here is one of the reviews for the production: The California Aggie

Pictured are Kevin Ganger as Thomas and Heidi Kendrick as Samira from my play Miracle Fish as produced by the University of California at Davis as part of the THIRDeYE Theatre Festival. Photo courtesy of the University of California, Davis.

I shot and edited a short :30 second trailer for the play for a film class as well.

Kellie, Part III....

2007-11-23T18:50:00.001-08:00

Coming soon.

As she prepares for grad school, trying to write whole plays, and finish that third dense Faulkner book. Oh you, Faulkner. Genius and tormentor in one.

As she slowly says goodbye to the ghosts she's held by the hand for far too long.

As she finishes 19 units at school while working 40 hours at work, collaborating with peers who could be her children and enjoying every sleepless life every second.

As she...well....to be continued.

Left

2007-06-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

What I have left doesn’t prove
you were ever really here.
When I try to clasp what you were—
it’s like my feuds with the flies in the air
as they girdle for honey.
Isn’t that proof of your existence?
Two species warring
for your keening scent,
to feed on your viscous salt.

I collected what reminds me of you—
torpid objects folded in paper towels
(the kind with embossed little stoves).
The necklace that didn’t fit,
whispered against the cardboard lid
of the box as it fell in
near a photo that presumes
it knows your lips against my hair—
taken the night we plum wined
ourselves to death.
Wasn’t that you I was with—
brandied in bed, bedecked in sweat?

I tried to inventory what I felt.
Or what I have left?
Felt? Left?
They are the same.
The walls refuse
to tell me what they saw.
And all I’m certain of is how
the enclosures of that room
felt against my hands, fingertips
when I was pressed
into purple painted wood.
And a spot where we splintered
the paint away, you behind me
is all that is certain—
left, felt.

Muse: Eyes wide open for ThirdEye Theatre Festival - Arts & Entertainment

2007-01-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

Muse: Eyes wide open for ThirdEye Theatre Festival - Arts & Entertainment

Marysville Christmas

2007-01-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

At Christmas the road to Marysville
is wrapped with leaves and orphaned tire orchards.

Marysville isn’t hollied in boughs.
It’s bargained by the Mother and Son store on B Street—
where you’ll never know what’s behind barred windows,
but you’re sure you’d find a Jesus statue
or a He Loves You sticker
near slippers from Oaxaca and altar candles.

Marysville isn’t silvered with bells
but with rejoice from public announcement speakers
at hamburger stands,
God Rest Ye — Josh Your Order’s Ready—Gentlemen
with eggnog shakes, jalapeños and see-through napkins

while an urban Santa hip-hops advertisements
for diamonds and gold
on the corner of E and 6th,
his sign deftly maneuvered—
Lowest Prices, the Best!
near the State Theater where neglect is marqueed
and tickets no longer sell.
And what bothers you most?
This Santa’s not fat—
sidewalk marketing makes it so.

And while snowmen are realized only in rain water
and bells half jingle—in Marysville,
little girls velvet themselves in red
and dance in Christmas pageants—
curls, tap shoes and just a little mascara,
on stages in brick theatres with plastic trees
and empty prop presents.

And for an hour, no more than two,
something perfect happens in Marysville
with its broken store fronts, country-sick roads,
with rubber tire wreaths along chicken-wire fences—
little girls dance in Christmas pageants,
with glittered shoulders and shimmer dresses
and their tap shoes tinsel an afternoon
for parents with video cameras.

Theory (or The Five Step Argument for Evolution by Natural Selection)

2007-01-06T10:45:00.000-08:00

Epochs are quicker than the chance of you loving me.
And yet,
your Anthropology—
your existence finds my relic self (artifacted hope)
with your Hellenic curved lips that unearth me;
unbury me with your science-sculpted mouth.

I. Variation: Individuals in a population differ in characteristics.
(Some are brown, some are blue. Sense is infinite.)

Have you seen my eyes trace the outline of your shape?
How I observe the length of your fingers
and the blueprint of your hands.
I behold the framework of your variety.
Glad of your blend—your hair
(bohemian on your head)
the color of sand and wood and bread.
Your Y chromosome taste—vintage sweet port,
drip to my festive vessel tongue.
O delicious little synthesis of want.

II. Inheritance: This variation is passed from parent to offspring.
(It takes time and Sex; love and luck take care of the rest.)

You—descendant of dirt, cells, the color red.
Earth strata brilliance,
time temple of heritage.
Thousands of years and days and weeks.
Neolithic minutes.
Dinosaur religion, orgasm Geography,
Glaciers of Sex, bedroom Geology—
evolution you to me.
Blow lava, flow sand and rock.

III. Competition Caused by Excess Reproduction: Organisms have the capacity to produce far more offspring than can actually survive.
(There is competition for resources just as there is for your touch.)

There is more want in the marrow of my skin
for your chance look than time has life.
I’m not as perfect as the rest—
I have only my words, my art,
my tongue as dowry.
The philosophy of my Willendorf breasts,
the ochre of my heart,
the crop of my legs,
the water of my touch,
the shore of my womb my oblation.

IV. Differential Reproductive Success: Because there is variation (Step I) and competition (Step III), some variants will produce more successful offspring.
(Have I been blessed by my own blend; inherited a chance?)

I mind map your genes with mine
like a school girl sketching flowers
in the letters of your name in margins,
and note the possibilities of our touch
(replicated sugar lust, infinite combinations of
our limb percussion, hair collision)
and reproduce ourselves into trees of heredity,
as your voice embeds
itself into my soul DNA
and wraps around my name.

V. Evolution: With differential survival (Step IV) and inheritance (Step II) there will be a change in the genetic composition of a population over time.
(Dare I suggest?)

I dare to “disturb the universe”
with my experiment, by writing this.
Let’s dance the mix of your hair with my skin.
Tangle my laugh with your careful step.
Imagine the color of eyes we might create,
the bend of limbs
careful in my womb.
Your smile with my sense.
Your y with my x.

Theory: That which has not been disproved; a set of statements to explain fact or phenomena.

It is your very moment in time,
your perfect life,
your feet of desert,
your blood of atoms and Apollo lips,
that teaches me devotion, evolution—
I call on Science,
Poets, any Oracle or Mother God(s),
whatever will work to tell you
this simple fact,
replicated over and over in my heart—
natural selection be damned
chance or not:

I love you.

Kellie Raines 2006

Nectarine in a Brown Velvet Purse

2007-01-06T10:41:00.000-08:00

It started with a nectarine
in a brown velvet purse.
Sequins disco in triangles on the outside
(minus three unbaubled from their thread life
in a hand-rush to answer his call; find the spot.)
Future hunger thoughts

made me fruit basket my purse.
Maybe it was the 99-Cents-A-Pound sign at the market?
Neck a Nectarine Today! Sexy cheap fruit?
Of course I bought. —Whatever. The cause
effected a nectarine in my purse.
It didn’t tarry alone very long.
Dishy ripe things never need to.
George Washington made the first move.
Caused trouble as money is wont to do.
He ducats out of my wallet into the floor of my purse,
flirts his way through the silver clasp
that should hold him back but doesn’t.
With his green back in a ruffle of a corner near a zipper,
George pursed his lips and green-mouth kissed
the more-yellow-than-orange parts of the fruit.
The part where the curve dips
into a demarcation of fruit flesh; plummets into its marrow.
I think his pyramid (In God We Trust)
wanted to pierce the nectarine’s vinous flesh with its point;
rest its eye on the pit. That’s when the nectarine left,
wizened up. Affairs between fruit and money don’t last.
Toothsome affordable sex is a capital alternative. Mexico fits.
Enter the lip gloss crop of my purse.
Mango Melon. Sun Kissed Juice. Tamarind Touch.
The nectarine tangoed with Mango Melon’s glitter pout.
Its wand glistened and curved to the left
for perfect application; comfortable grip.
The cracked lid glossed out diamond wetness,
rested on the lip of the spot where a stem was once.
The nectarine was seduced. Slurped it up.
The nectarine and Mangled Melancholy
separated when I dropped my purse.
The straps had fallen off my shoulder
until gravity discharged the fruit vessel to the earth.
Later I would find nectarine skin syruped; sundered.
The Bilbao key chain he gave me the culprit.
It Spanished its edge into the fruit heart.
When exactly did it end? Before it started.
But, as he says, “However—ends don’t count.”
I put my hand in my purse, searched for a pen.
I’m the kind that never looks,
just fingers for what I need until the shape feels right.
And I discovered the defiled fruit, pulp aftermath.
Molested, seduced—torn apart.
In the end I banished the keychain to a box in a closet
where it will stay, until the next time I need to remember him.
Or maybe just slay some fruit—slice a banana.

Kellie Raines 2007

self portrait in a diner

2007-01-03T23:11:00.001-08:00

my skin stretched—
marked
(too much chocolate),
my toasted lips
sipped and bit to butter—
milk soft
by coffee ground tongue.
his Mexico
sweated on my back,
his hands salt stuck
to my neck,
chocolate
in my mouth
reflected in the chrome-lid
of a sugar container
on a counter top
as he whispers
quieres más?

champagne cost

2007-01-01T12:08:00.000-08:00

tonight I looked for you
in the champagne circle
of my tongue on glass.
you taught me how
to use numbess as a measure--
it's when you can't feel your teeth
and your lips lose the firmness of a coin holder
that you decide on the now of later.
better to wake up head torn
than to remember the currency
of mouths and mirrors--
surrender
behind doors with numbers.

with Happy newness around me
I blanketed bubbles
that calendered down my throat a new year
and thoughts of I'll do better,
my stomach will be thinner.
and in the swallow
I marked April 3 in my head.
if I could I'd send you a card with some random quote
or call you older than flour and England and tobacco.
I'm sure you'd laugh, call me naughty
with your vowels that grasp my hips
as you consonant your sharpeness
into the bone of me that makes me shiver.
And I wondered with the tongue circle
on glass
if your island has waves of foamy alcohol
you drink to numbness
when your tragic swagger kicks in--
when you worry of too many people to love
and spiderwebs and not enough music.
if the cost is too much
to remember the train ride you interrupted
seven years ago to say hello,
of the phone call from a car park,
and a weekend in Portland--
of the chance you took at something new.
but you should know where ever you are,
this year and the next and the one to follow,
I'll never reimburse--
I can afford you.

Kellie Raines 2007

Red carpets are concrete

2006-08-05T15:06:00.000-07:00

And the papparazi use cell phone cameras.

I had a small speaking role in All in a Day's Work, directed by the talented Kristina and Victoria Rodriguez. The film was a part of the 7th Annual Sacramento Film and Music Festival at the Crest.

I had a line—two words. And those two words, my little time on the screen, and the day of the shoot and the whole experience with super talented people bit me with the bug. I want to do film. I've always been a theatre purist, snob if you will. "I'll only do stage," I used to declare. Not anymore. I'm in love with the artform more than I ever realized I could be. There is room for both in my heart.

And my speaking film debut was that night, with probably a couple of hundred people in attendance at the historic Crest theatre in downtown Sacramento. I was one of many that night on screen, but of course in my mind—I focused on my experience.

For the most part, no friends or family in attendance. The two friends that were actually there, sort of left and didn't say goodbye during the night which caused me to be a little more reflective. I realized that the magic of the night wasn't the attention and support I would have gotten from them had they been there and/or stayed (as nice as it would have been), but the magic was by myself and for myself. It was sitting in that theatre, watching the bits and pieces that were filmed, feeling proud to be a part of a super talented group of people and an end product. And the flourish of the magic wand that enchanted me was seeing strangers see my face on the screen, in a darkened theatre, and them laughing noticeably when I said my line. Yes, I've been bitten.

And I realized something else—your friends aren't always there for you, because they have lives that happen outside of you. And sometimes you are alone in a dark theatre on a special night. And sometimes that's better and more than just the way it is---it's what it should be. I'm just now realizing at this ripe old age of 36, that the effort in producing something you want to share, is done by yourself—no one else. And in the end, the journey, the work, the inspiration, the effort, the struggle, the pain and the joy....are all by yourself. Sometimes you have to enjoy it by yourself. Collective art, like All in a Day's Work, is a whole lot of "by yourselves" brought together into one whole piece of very cool art.

In the Pieces

2006-07-28T22:22:00.000-07:00

What I remember most? How you fragmented
yourself to me. Your voice in digital packets,
ones and zeros, from a car park on an island
in a sea. You were windswept, interesting.
Silvery, Spanish, in a tambourine, chocolate,
plot-like way. Lorca approved sentences,
brown Danish butterflies, parcels
and the random plea. Postcards.

Bought in Rotterdam.
Written in Amsterdam.
Posted in Oporto.
Destination: San Francisco.

In between sentencing your pretty debris.
Slovakian newspapers, books.
Currency. Ice cream after sex,
the caramel kind with chocolate-shaped fish.
The way you said naughty,
and crumpet. Menorcan beaches.
Wooing adjectives and
your weakness for mayonnaise.
We disagreed.
International dialing codes
on slips of paper. Morsels.
Breasts in lips in mirrors.

You'd love Budapest.
I yelled your name in China---part of all my business trips.
More card keys and suites.
More doors? Well, entrances at least.

Fragments catalogued in a rephrased box
(I think a candle lived there once)
in a drawer in a country not your own.
An empty perfume bottle
(Japanese, noted with Parma violet).
Your tie is gone (champagne threw it out).
Postcards are left.

I'm airport waiting, card sending.
Fancy a pint at Moose's?
I miss...well... your laugh....it has curls in it.
Did we settle on Vienna? I cant remember.

You ghost yourself in and out the edges
of these cards. Pressed, dulcet-worn cards.
Budapest is my favourite (note: I keep
the u in honour of your English). Portugal
is a bookmark in a book I cant finish. Oslo
has a tear at the corner and only one x
below the signature L.
Your L. Its precipice piercing
my address, the lower loop closed
like us in Portland.

Kellie Raines 2006

The comings and goings of M's

2006-07-27T14:19:00.000-07:00

My mother (M)arilyn called me at 1:30 a.m. to tell me my grandmother (M)arian had finally passed away after a long journey with Alzheimer's at age 83. My parents were at my grandma (M)ary's bedside constantly over the past two weeks. I'm sad at her passing, but more worried about my mother. I am very grateful though that my parents made the trip to Michigan so they could be there. I love my grandmother. She gave me her nose (our profiles match perfectly), my love of poetry (she was a published poet), and drawing (she could draw anything). She was a brilliant woman who lived a tough life. Her father was an immigrant from Scotland (I saw his name on the Ellis Island Memorial) who ended up going on the lam for being a bank robber. Yes....family lore says he knew Al Capone. My great-grandfather kidnapped my grandmother for a day when she was a little girl. He took her on bus rides and bought her ice cream so he could spend one last day with her before he left....to who knows where. That was the last anyone ever heard from him again.

And as one long and full life comes to an end, on the same day....

My friend (M)ichele to gave birth to her daughter (M)ia.

And I recently saw my beautiful friend (M)argaret after many months, and that made me happy.

Life is truly amazing in its timing sometimes. I can't wait to hold little Mia and spoil her with all the pinkness and girliness she can stand. :) I can't wait to catch up with Margaret. And I think of my mom, Marilyn, a lot right now.

Today as one M left my life...another M entered it. And two beautiful M's continue to be cherished friends. And my mother is in my heart. I never realized how important the letter M was to my life...until today.

A Bamboo Tree Grows in Brooklyn

2006-07-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

So I can cause adventures from 3,000 miles away. My best girlfriend moved to NYC for four months for an awesome job/training opportunity. Her second day there I sent her a lucky bamboo plant so she'd have something homey in her Brooklyn Heights apt. She called me that night after her first subway trip out of the city and it hadn't arrived. Hmm...maybe the next day.

Well she calls me back yelling (with a smile in her voice it seems), "OMG, You're not going to believe what just happened!" She was in the shower when she heard her phone ring and the shout of "Delivery"......now...come on....who delivers bamboo plants at 9:00pm? Anyway....she thought to herself....I better put a bra on before I go down to get it. Good forward thinking....she ran all the way down, got the lucky bamboo plant I sent her....and discovered she locked herself out of her apartment. Which is not so lucky. And only her second day there. A neighbor let her call a locksmith, who first told her $25, and after he opened the door (oh...did I mention she's in a bathrobe and a bra?)...after he opens the door he tells her it's $100 and he doesn't take checks. She tells him she'll have to go to an ATM and he's says....."I'LL TAKE YOU." That's when she calls me. She can't think of anything else to do...so she says, "Stay with me on the phone until I'm back home." The whole time she's trying to talk him down and at one point he's talking to me through the phone saying "$100....not bad." She walks home from the ATM and the whole time I'm apologizing (trying not to laugh) for sending her a lucky bamboo plant that wasn't so lucky. "Maybe I should have sent you an orchid."

I told her I'd send her some sage. We both laughed...because.....when we go out...she says I always do something that brings about some kind of adventure....(really...there was the zombie bookseller, going north on 101 to go south, me climbing the brick retaining wall outside her window at midnight) it's always an adventure...something always happens....and from 3,000 miles away....the adventures continue.

I'm going for a long weekend in October to stay with her before her time in NYC is up. God knows what adventures await....when I get there. I can't wait to find out. And for now...the lucky bamboo tree is sitting on her fireplace...growing in Brooklyn.

I want to live where the cell meets body

2006-07-19T15:37:00.000-07:00

"I want to live where the soul meets body,"...to quote the song by Death Cab for Cutie, or rather, in my case, where the cell phone meets body.

Recently I attended brunch in a park across from my apartment that a friend/fellow actor put together (Mimosas in the Park was the name of the event actually) and had a grand time. And because it was just across the street from my apartment I didn't want to carry a purse or bag or anything. And because I rarely have pockets...and because I have the room and have been known to use my cleavage as a pocket—I put my keys and phone in my bra between my, yes, breasts. I know......I know.....I'm trying to stop this habit...but, hey....it's a habit....and you have no idea how convenient it is. Anyway.....

Of course I thought my phone was on silent (bet you can tell already it wasn't)...so right there....drinking a mimosa, eating a banana, talking to people I hardly knew....the Death Cab for Cutie ringtone I have on my cell phone started ringing/singing: "I do believe it's true, that there are roads left in both of our shoes..." (the actual lyrics on my phone.)

I tried to hide the fact that the music was coming from me...but alas I couldn't conceal the music and its location any longer. I grabbed my breasts (yes cupped them with my hands), looked at everyone and said...it's my phone...it's in my bra. The people at Mimosas in the Park were laughing hysterically as I, yes....reached in....flipped open my Motorola Razr and answered it. (It was my friend from NYC--see blog "A Bamboo Tree Grows in Brooklyn" to appreciate the underlying karmic funniness of this story.)

When I finished my call, the people I had just met an hour ago were still laughing hysterically. And I think one guy was a little amazed. He just stared at me and smiled and laughed. I said, "It's a good pocket." At which point he said, "I don't wanna know where you keep your charger." Someone said in the best comic voice, "Yeah...I downloaded this boob ringtone last night."

I was with a group of standup comics, artists, actors, and all around cool people...there was no mercy. There shouldn't have been—it was funny.

Upon leaving one of the mimosa drinking participants (Bill was his name I think), asked, "Got another mammary call?"

I said, "Yes...it's collect, I need to go home to answer it."

I swear this is my life!

I didn't dare tell him about the time at Halloween when I was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and I had a camera (digital), 3 sets of ID's, a compact (powder, not a car), and lipstick (red) in there. A friend called it a clown car, "Things just keep coming out....Jimmy Hoffa is probably in there."

He's not...just in case you were worried...I checked.

As my Poodle would say...."I'm having a time." And yes...I still want to live where the soul/cell meets body....and that morning....I left a melody softly soaring through everyone's atmosphere.