at the time, I did not write about fg, it was one of those things that was going on when I was rushing to get everything done with that hairpin exactness that forces you to make it to work o time when balancing a custody demand and a job that required you to be there when the everyone was sleeping.

but looking back, I can say that, in all of my life i have never known those moments which, even during the time, felt like it was straight out of a movie. have you ever had moments like that? when someone you met is this fabulous larger than life artist who makes you feel like you are the most beautiful person in the world. I guess that is what is was about him, and it was not at first. at first i had no intention of even liking him, i thought he was a brat. a very goodlooking brat. 

do you know what it was that made me fall in love with him? it should not be such a shock when i say. and i do recall the moment exactly and where we were standing. there was another artist there too; the other one who worked with us for the night crew with the same first name so i called them their names 'squared' as a joke over the PA each night and they liked to compete

 but the moment was when fg took out his sketchbook, that was the moment. we three stood by the checkout counter after close. the place was empty except for us until three in the morning. and like all of us there, all artists, all with our mediums so it was expected there would be things to see.

i have looked at a lot of people's work. i have grown up around artists. i have lived in a family of artists and heard the criticisms of works, viewed friends of friends and art college students. but there was a moment and i guess he might have sensed it because before that i really had no time for the brat, but then he slapped down the sketch book. i have never seen anything like that sketch book. i would give anything to see it again. the work was unlike anything i have ever seen. the faces were Picasso weird. the shading so Chagall the images were so complex and involved that each page pulled me further and further through his visual journey. and there was the second named squared loudly sighing in annoyance at me because he knew there was no competition after this. 

confessions

if ever there was a place to hide a thought, it is here and because those things that matter 

often get over looked i guess in my most quiet of whispers years later i may speak of things that got quickly swept under the carpet. fg was mine and if he is the worst than it cannot be so bad but he was such a bad boy that i tried my best to avoid the hurricane. 

did i call him another name i forget, but looking back, the sweetest memory i have of him was a sunny day when.... it was all by the by but he pulled me aside and showed me a memory box he had just finished. it had all of his youth and family memorabilia. he was always such an artist, the work was exquisite, the sanding of the wood, the connecting of the sides so perfect, so very beautiful but he said, "do you see what's preserved in there forever with my life?" he pointed inside past the sealed-up glass. it was a photo of me he stole from my jewelry box. there it was glued closed in his beautiful life memory box and .... i was then with his best friend. he was that way, so very Romeo. so very much the heritage of his background, he was so alive with creating, and beauty and passion and being in the moment and he jabbed me to the heart. how could he do that. but it is one of those moments in life that i dont know whatever it was 

i met him soon after my mother died. just weeks after her husband and my horrible ruin of loss of custody in court. i was a wreck and there he was looking at me like i was some ....what did he always call me, he would sing the Miss America song when i showed up;  i was Miss America to him --but it was not about fucking, it was this other thing that was between us. it was this kind of honesty. it was this secret but it was also more, it was that we could create together, we could come alive when we were together. 

was it the art? or the emotions we shared because.... we talked a lot; we shared real life things that were happening and we  became closer than any other lover i have ever known 

the last time i saw him was at the ruin of .... what became of chris and me. or what we had once been called at the art warehouse, the 'chris and electra show' the ugly soap opera that was our life for awhile but before that it was another show; my scandalous life with one of many mad artists who have made my life so crazy....but fg —i always knew he would ....not be able to forget me

it is weird, life is like the ocean. things always get rushed back upon the shore

qualcuno del passato mi ha trovato 

xmas 2014

I'm not sure I've written about this ever on here, i might have. 

i think about it now i guess.... there was something I saw that triggered stuff. It was the year I was leaving Chris, I was in Connecticut for the holidays. I was staying with MM. I guess that was, for us, our last hurrah. 

i met one of my half brothers, of my biological father. there are two. anyway, for awhile, we struck up a kind of rapport and i never allowed myself to tell him exactly who i was, just that my mother knew his father a long time ago.

I have written about this. I suppose much of why I like to read about history and those historical figures so much is because of who he was and I want to understand better as an objective outsider; a bystander how this may be understood.  of course, I could not tell him who I was. His mother ruined our father in court publicly. she ruined him. I heard stories from my mother. she told me everything. of cousre she omitted the dirty deed but it was admitted without words a million times, who am i kidding? the point is....

i got convinced by MM that I ought to meet him. It was the start of my life as a single person after Chris and I was fresh for the course of start.... 

Why do I look at this now? I guess because there is a need to examine meaning. 

How did our meeting go? do you wonder. I know I wrote of this. We met at Grand Central Station. He is tall, like our father. He is dark haired, like our father. This was the first thing that I observed. 

But that was where their resemblance ended. It is a strange thing to meet a sibling for the first time when you are all grown up. I examined his features. I searched. But I felt a jab within; the same as what I have known of my other sibling. This stranger, this man who is my half brother who does not know that I know this and he only sees me....as some kind of fawning groupie bimbo— but I think, wait, no? —like surly he would have suspected? seen the resemblance ….? I mean, after all look who our notorious father was..... 

He was not erudite. I was immediately disgusted. I was turned off by his manner. He was handsome, I guess, but the kind I do not like; arrogant with the machismo  assumed by his assumed superiority based on his gender. He acted towards me as if I was a prospective hook up, eyeing me, flirting, sharing his fries with me and calling for more shots.

What did I expect? 

I cried all the way back to MM's and had to repair my makeup on the train. we would spend new years eve in Manhattan watching the ball drop at Time's Square with Tristan; American and Jan; Swedish, her gay couple friends flown in from Milan to crash our party.

I see him putting up old photos of dad and he imposes himself as if he is meant to step in those shoes but .... it was a moment of pause and i just felt like some lost shuffled Princess of Joan of Wales, bastard to a king and tossed to the mountains in exile 

maybe in a world of peacocks that is totally perfect

                   I don't recognize that world anymore as significant enough to look at. it is dull and boring to look at it. 

I guess what made me feel sad about his post was-- he feels so fake; like a pretender and it deeply disturbs me. Did he know sitting next to me that I was his sister? Or worse, so shallow, did he only think of me as pussy? Like cast from an Ex lover of his father's so why not? Did I feel flattered he flirted with me? No! I was shocked. Why should I have been as his own culture is that way so, perhaps it was not within his intelligence to see beyond the box. 

He was not intellectual. Not even philosophical; I tried to engage him in politics. He was not political either! even as he is now (and was trying to then) running for office! 

I think what upset me was-- there was no connection. It could very well have been my sister sitting there. He was interested in the football game they had on and playing footsie with me

that was a turning point that Christmas .... I met my half biologerical brother for the first time and last, one of the only living connection to my father

what is truth?

non-haiku falling autumn winter

the odd incongruence 

of a shatter of golden ochre autumn leaves 

upon a near foot of white snow 

illuminated under the lamppost