ninaelder

Late April (stones from near Sea Camp, Point Reyes National Seashore)

2009-05-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

I am contemplating loneliness. Although I spin in my own little world with strange scheduling and an odd smattering of passions and responsibilities, I feel completely connected to a few people. I keep thinking about Marx’s theory of “man’s metabolism with nature”……that we use nature to live, and to live we must use nature. Cyclical, self-perpetuating dependence. What about humanities metabolism with humanity? I am fueled by love and the more I live, the more deeply invested in love I become. Love only asks for more investment so that there can be more of it. If desire is suffering, love is sustenance.

Space

2008-11-24T22:00:00.000-08:00

It was thus also (and above all) disquieting, evoking neither pleasure, not joy, nor calm - only intellectual interest and most likely anxiety. Anxiety in face of what? In face of the shattered figures of a world in pieces, in face of a disjointed space, and in face of a pitiless 'reality' that cannot be distinguished from its own abstraction, from its own analysis, because it is already an abstraction. (Henri LeFebvre, The Production of Space)

late november, autumn (stones from Limantour Spit, Point Reyes National Seashore)

2008-11-24T21:40:00.000-08:00

HERE: To ride on a ferry through unknown waters in the pouring rain. The ebbing warmth of a cup of coffee in hand. From the comforting blank white world into the monotony of home. I wish that ferry ride had been longer, that the spasms of water across the window had continued. Invisibility beyond anonymity. Boundlessly expansive in my truncated senses. To sit still for one whole hour, and let everything beyond my skin and sight become absolutely equal in utter superfluousness. (me)
THERE: This is the most beautiful place on earth. There are many such places. Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary. For the time being, around my place at least, the air is untroubled, and I become aware for the first time today of the immense silence in which I am lost. Not a silence so much as a great stillness- slight noises break the sensation of absolute silence but at the same time exaggerate my sense of of the surrounding, overwhelming peace. A suspension of time, a continuous present. (Edward Abbey)

Hamlet, II 2, also the introduction to Borge's The Aleph

2008-08-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

Oh God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a King of infinite space.....

One of the best poems ever written

2008-02-02T00:25:00.000-08:00

I have loved this poem for more than a decade:
Eating Poetry
Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

A poetic cheerleader in the cold

2008-02-02T00:21:00.000-08:00

Lines For Winter, by Mark Strand
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself --
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

Everything begins again (stones from South Great Beach, Point Reyes National Seashore)

2008-02-01T01:31:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of Roland Barthes: I like cumulous nimbus clouds, cathedrals, crossword puzzles, topographic maps, color-coded-anything, fog horns, writing with nice pens, the sound of foot falls on earth or snow or mud or dried leaves, cooking meals for people that I love, thermoses that don't leak, chopping vegetables, orating my dreams, petting dogs, taking surveys, getting dressed up (but only once in a while), sleeping in a cold room under many blankets, cellos, autumn, olives, riding in a car full of people, trombones, rust, striped socks, setting the table before a dinner party, walking barefoot on warm sandstone, getting letters in the mail, electric guitars, adventurous conversation, bright clashing colors, driving on long lonely highways, first kisses, woolen socks, sore muscles, jumping in the air,most shades of green, mid-century modern design, old ladies who like to talk, pinot noir and sauvignon blanc, good burritos, honesty, landscapes where open spaces meet the mountains, hugging my mother and feeling her soft cheek against my own, laughing uncontrollably, being alone in vast wildernesses, similes, coffee and cigarettes in the morning, when people touch me on the knee or the shoulder when they are talking to me, the smell of pine trees, sage bushes, and eucalyptus, dusk, bald men, intentionality, flying on airplanes, falling asleep with my head on someone's shoulder, spinach, Kansas, dancing (especially with my sister), acknowledged friendships, bulldozers, Thanksgiving, photo albums, tulips, 1960's Jaguars, house slippers, gas stoves, eye contact, the smell of basil, theremins, waking up slowly, thinking about wind and waves and currents,

The New Year (stones from Agate Beach, Patrick's Point)

2008-02-01T01:06:00.000-08:00

An Ode to Art God:
This is a solidified spirit behind a post Dadaist way of living/creating. It is a vulnerability to the creative, fearless, celebratory nature of life. It dances, confounds, inspires, is an insomniac, can be debaucherous or hyper focussed. It writes late night emails. It is very honest. It is very generous and dynamic and magnetic. It allows for criticism and questioning, but also can say fuck this shit. It picks its nose and farts. It can have smart, esoteric conversation. It writes in a journal. It eats snacks late at night, goes on long walks, smokes cigarettes. It is not afraid of love. It is not afraid of lonesomeness. It is ready to alienate itself for the purpose of meaningful authenticity. It values complexity as much as it values clarification. It explores. It does not self edit. It can be enthralled by nuance. It can be animalistic. It is never shameful. It is a master of observing and synthesizing. It has no mantra.
Art God is not a god you pray to, or a god to be described as benevolent or malevolent. It is a god you can channel. You can speak in tongues, be filled with the spirit, be an intermediary, be a saint.

late november (stones from Limantour Spit, Point Reyes National Seashore)

2008-02-01T00:41:00.000-08:00

excerpts from a solo sabbatical : Oh, my heart hurts! It is the pursuit of the impossible. By the way, I am drinking Whiskey and Capri Sun. Might he help me navigate the desert soil? Could he understand the overwhelming nature of nature? Could he help raise goats and tomatoes and other peoples' kids? I wonder if I spent 8 years here, would this become MY landscape? Is there a place in my soul that is indelibly marked by the Southwest, so that Hamilton Mesa and South Park and Three Guns Trail are my only signifiers of simultaneous home and beauty? The desert lends itself so easily to fantasy and to action. I look at the blue meets blue horizon, and I do not know what to do. I want my life to be site specific and I want that life NOW! I want the weather to decide what I do with my day. I love nature so much more than I love mankind and its messiness.

2007-11-14T15:27:00.000-08:00

I was vivaciously dead last night.

2007-11-04T01:55:00.000-07:00

I led a parade through the streets last night. My face was painted as a skeleton. I kicked a can, danced with a broom, drank tecate by the light of farolitos and the glow of love. I heard death pronounced and celebrated by my two sisters, one of blood and one of spirit, once in english and once in spanish. And then, repeated, like a reverberation, many times in my heart.

Nothing But Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
with no finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,
with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

Pablo Neruda

I felt the earth move under my feet

2007-10-31T00:44:00.000-07:00

I have spent quite a bit of time lately thinking about the earth's core. I imagine the middle of it is sloshing around with molten rock. I can envision a heart of slurping and splashing lava as this planet hurtles through the solar system. There are tides down there, and maybe tsunamis, of glowing red boiling rock. I also have come to terms with the fact that "the big one" will happen. That the earth will roar its terrible roar and gnash its terrible teeth and show its terrible claws. That California is going to get fucked up, and I might be here. Tonight I was working at my new job (at Cafe Du Soleil, keeping with the planetary theme!). My job is to help happy people stay happy, through wine and pastries and hot chocolate and charming conversations. So, I was sipping an espresso cup full of bordeaux, eating raspberries, pretending to chat with Jean Luc, although I could not understand him through his french accent. At that moment, an incredibly handsome man walked through the door of the cafe, wearing a marvelous green scarf. I thought to myself "Wow. I have never had such a reaction to somebodies physical appearance before! I feel like I am going to fall over!" Then everyone started cheering, and I realized there had been an earthquake. Jubilance spread through the room, I told the handsome man that his green scarf had caused the earth to move, and I continued to drink bordeaux and eat raspberries. I felt so thrilled and alive, like some one had just given me a great compliment, or I had just seen a shooting star, or I had just thrown a successful dinner party. When a thunderstorm is approaching, the air is infused with negative ions, which have positive psychological effects. I wonder if there is a similar phenomena pertaining to techtonic shifts. I feel extraordinary.

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

2007-10-27T03:56:00.000-07:00

I just laughed so hard with my sister. Milan Kundera would have been impressed. My stomach hurts.

Before, written from the after. Memories of a buffalo girl.

2007-10-13T00:49:00.001-07:00

Tonight, I had a flash back. It was triggered by a familiar combination of sensations. The sensory (selective) deprivation chamber of my studio. Manic music blasting through my headphones. The slowly developing scene of my painting. The stagnant smell of solvent, paint, and cement floors mingling in my nose. The cramping of my right hand around my paint brush. The rigormortis of my left hand holding a baby food jar full of paint. The undulations of arty endorphins. The sense that time is passing, but I will not look at a clock. Enduro-art. Paint until I can paint no more.
Once upon a time, I was blessed. I would paint and paint, only pausing to smoke cigarettes and flip over the tape in my walkman. The split second before I collapsed, I would stop, wash out my brushes, and walk to my truck. I would drive down a long boulevard, the median of which was planted with trees. Upon reaching my destination, I would let myself in the backdoor. There was always a pot of green chile on the stove, waiting for me. Made with love and intention. The acrid, spicy smell, the warmth of the kitchen, the 1950's formica counter tops, the ristras of Juan's red chile nestled under the ceiling, next to some christmas lights and a dying house plant. The parade of things to go with the green chile, because sadly, man cannot live on chile alone. Yellow squash, with crooked necks. The bland indian bread from Isleta, down south, made by that lady, do you remember meeting her? Beans, soaked, simmered, so damn good, the food of gods. Of women named Persingula. Posole, sorry about the pork, or the venison, but what idiot would make vegetarian posole? A grilled cheese sandwish. A sliced tomato. I would eat. He would give me space. Space to talk about line and form, the transparency of dioxazine purple, the joyful opacity of cadmium, the trepidation to tred across the across the snowy feild of a blank canvas. Space to sit in silence. Space to talk about the Sunday Times. Space to carefully listen to one perfect jazz song, and hear a story about his uncle and his mythical vinyl collection. Space to contemplate the sublime perfection of a poor man's margarita: Squirt and tequila.... Hey, do you know that Squirt is made with turpentine? Hey, do you remember when you moved here? We ate pizza on the naked floor. Hey do you remember the lilacs in Mountainair? The beautiful boys at Jemez feast day? The wooden beams, with the marks of now rusted saws, the labor of now dead hands,the past, laid bear? The green cottonwood spine of the desert? The smell of Catholic insense, of your marijuana, of salty skin, of cedar smoke at dusk, of the sigh of freshness that preceeds a thunderstorm?

Do you see the similarity?

2007-10-12T13:12:00.000-07:00

So, I finally quit working at Incanto. The worst job I have ever had. Some of the best food, but staffed by the most uptight, pretentious, cruel people I have ever met. If they turned their spite against each other, it would turn into as much of a blood bath as the kitchen. Blood pudding anybody? I am released from my misery, free to be authentic, happy, and friendly. None of those twerps will ever criticize me for saying "y'all" again. None of those assholes will ever make fun of my striped over-alls splattered with paint again. And, most of all, none of those jerks will ever call me stupid, ever again. THey call the food there "offal" (pronounced awful: brains, stomach, ears, feet, etc.). They should just call the staff awful. I am FREEEEEEE!!!!!!!

give me a bandaid and a shot of whiskey

2007-10-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

I keep stubbing my toes on piles of discarded projects. I am continually grazing my elbows on the unexplored ideas that poke out from the corridors of my thoughts. I just hit my funny bone on a really wonderful idea, got smashed to bits by the speeding bus that carried my inspiration. I have a concussion from cramming things into my brain. I can't turn around without tripping over a deadline. I have two black eyes from the unrelenting beatings that stress keeps giving me. I have splinters of beauty under my skin, that will probably get infected if they don't get extracted soon. My ribs hurt from laughing at my own naivete.

crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis

2007-10-01T00:28:00.000-07:00

Artistic crisis.Economic crisis. Philosophical crisis. Identity crisis. Crises of faith, vision, space, mindset, future, past. I am so ready to admit that I am in crisis. I have not been in my studio for almost two weeks. There are those laughable people that go to grad school: they are talented, focused, ambitious, successful. But then someone gives them a weighty suggestion, and the next thing you know, architects become printmakers, philosophers become carnies, theologans start death metal bands, illustrastors become performance artists that light themselves on fire and jump into public swimming pools filled with vinegar, just because it is art. I was not going to be one of these people. I came to San Francisco, to the Art Institute, not to change, but to refine. Alas,against all previous sense of stability and prophesizing about my future, here I am. I had one hour in my studio with one very insightful dude on the one day in which I felt a little bored and vulnerable. So now my Aries inner self has taken over. Fuck this complacent, studio driven, commercially viable art form. I am going to break laws, put my self in harms way, spend hours and money that I do not have, breath in toxic shit, run comletely on elbow grease and idealism, and make art that no one will ever see. Great!?!?! I should be really excited, eh? Oh, well. It will come to fruition, someday, someway. I will end up in jail (for breaking and entering) with lung cancer (from breathing in aesbestos) riddled with post traumatic stress syndrome (from getting mugged in some unsavory place), but I will know that I saw my artistic vision and followed it. Please, somebody, email me, call me, and talk some sense into me.
Other instances of crisis? *I have decided I am going deaf. I am already half way there. *I have a job which is offering me two brand new experiences: to be not very good at something, and to be hated by my peers. *The past, even shit like 7th grade shenanigans, has HUGE gravity that, rather than diffusing over time, only become more potent. It is like fermentation. I am quite suprised upon drinking from my past what has become wine and what has become vinegar. * I want to be an academic. I would like to publish books, be able to casually reference Marx, wear really odd clothes, be astoundingly articulate, keep odd hours, and be called "celebrated". PhD, here I come. Get ready for Dr. Nina. * I have no need for romance. That was just a byproduct of my boredom, which was masked by a sense of leisure, in which I was complacent. No time for dudes. I guess, hmmmmm, I have cut out one venue for crisis. * (not reason for crisis, bit it is interesting that all my friends conjure up the past, and memories, and previous definitions of me. Proof that crisis does not really change shit, that friendship runs DEEP)My friends consist of: my sister. my ex-boss, who is a republican. my best girl friend from junior high church stuff. my best guy friend whom I met in 1st grade and was reaquainted with last week after a decade of silence. a perforamce artist who tried to burn his beard off rather than shave. my yoga teacher/roomate/travelling buddy/surrogate sister. my sister's high school boyfriend. my mom. my soul mate girl friend....her dog is in doggy prison for biting some twerpy little brat at REI. almost no one from albuquerque.....there are a few gems, though, oasis' in that recent desert. *I am eating meat. Wierd stuff. Cow stomach. Tuna heart. Pork feet and liver and brains and ears and skin and eyeballs. Cod cheeks. Hotdogs.
OK, enough public exposing of my personal analysis. Maybe in a two years, things will be a little more stable. I am already accumulating a reading list, a to-do list, a dream list, for when this hyperdynamic experience is over.

I moved to San Francisco, and all I got was a really sore ass.

2007-08-04T16:27:00.000-07:00

My first day here, I woke up alone. I was freaked out......just the waking up alone part was foreign. No snuffle of breath coming from under the pillows next to me, no inky arms secured around my waist, no fuzzy chest pressed into my back. Oh, aloneness. I also missed my sister sorely. Mrs. Gorham,the taxidermied rabbit, exclaimed "This is erin's apartment! What are you doing here?" The odd smiling pinata head on top of the fridge sneered," Why are you just sitting there drinking so much coffee? Go start your new life!" The assorted manequin hands waited to wave me on my way, but I just sat there. Finally, I loaded up my bag with tons of really heavy stuff (computer, water bottles, 1972 Chevy truck, journal, books, camera, baby elephant, bundles of maps, gold bricks) and set out for the closest coffee shop. I saw it and kept walking. And then I walked and walked and walked. I did not stop for 6 hours. I carted my cargo over hills, through parks, amidst bums, around designer boutiques. My legs hurt, my shoulder ached, my feet blistered, but I could not stop! I wanted to see our new house, then I wanted to crest a big hill, then I wanted to find that certain french bistro, then I wanted to go downtown, then I wanted a glimpse of the bay, then I wanted......I just went and went. Dusk, and a hang out session at Jaime's finally made me cease my ambulations. The next morning, I thought "I will go to the bike repair shop, get my brakes fixed, and then go find a coffee shop". 35 miles later, having toured 1/2 the peninsula,still carrying my huge bag of crap, I still had not stopped for that cup of coffee. With shin splints and a tired ass, I met Jaime for a drink, followed by a drink, followed by a drink, followed by......
Having given my legs, butt, and liver a work out, I was a limping and moaning this morning as Jaime and I went to inspect our new house and interviews the DUDES. The house is huge, with unbelievably high ceilings, beautiful woodwork, chandeliers, more space than most San Franciscan's would dare to dream of. Even hungover, Jaime and I were jumping up and down with joy. Then Jason showed up. He is great! He likes to take photographs of earthmoving equipment! He owns 4 bikes! He loves travel and speaks several languages! We have not signed anything yet, but I think the excitement was mutual. Then while Jaime and I were conferring at a vegan resterant around the corner I got a call from Blue Jay Cafe, inviting me to interview and work a trial shift! I guess in my mid-treck delerium, I had dropped off a resume! I hope it pays off.

2007-07-30T08:03:00.000-07:00

smartichoke

2007-07-08T02:04:00.000-07:00

I have 5 days left. 5 shifts of shleping food. 5 days of kissing ass. 5 days of ....... who knows.

To la la land

2007-06-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

Off I go to the city of Angles, I mean the City of Angels. Blessed respite from heat and disharmony.

keyboards

2007-05-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

Wow. That last entry was really really late at night, quite drunk, and very inspired. It ended with a rip off Joel Peter Witkin photo shoot. Any hoo, I think everyone should spend time drinking bubbly with a person that has nine keyboards (one of which is a baby grand piano) in his guest room.

I love piano players

2007-05-19T03:32:00.000-07:00

I wish someone had said " fuck ballet. try contemporary dance.". I wish someone had said " Screw classical, try making your own music".

I love my family SO much that my heart hurts

2007-05-17T10:21:00.000-07:00

I have the best family. If I could ochestrate a fire works show accompanied by symphonies, free champagne for all, masses of water slides and trampolines at ones disposal, balmy summer evening weather, crickets singing and the smell of fresh cut grass, it might sum up a fraction of the joy and bliss that I feel around my amazing family. I am a cheese ball, and this is my only public venue to exhalt my beloved family!

I heart the ghetto

2007-05-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

My future studio looks out over abandoned factories, a power plant replete with the visual cacaphony of coils cords and conductors, and a huge beautiful ever-billowing smoke stack! When my sister drove me past last week, I could not stop giggling. What I thought I was leaving behind will be right out my front door.

Will I ever be a real blogger?

2007-05-08T08:19:00.000-07:00

It seems that I will never get the hang of this stuff. Sometimes I want to pretend that the whole world is reading this thing, and shout all my news, ideas, thoughts, and assume that it is having an impact. Conversely, I want to pretend that not a single soul is reading this (the more likely of the two), and spill the beans, let the skeletons out, stick my foot in my mouth repetedly and with vigor, with confidence that no one will ever read these words.

Anyways......I am on the verge of moving to San Francisco. It is oddly cold in Q town. I feel good about the way my shoulders look after going to the gym for 2 months. I have fervently been doing crossword puzzles. I have only one job (a new thing). I am dating several men (also a first in my life). I am up absurdly early because one of these men is a bike comuter to his real job. I finished a painting yesterday that is the embodiment of happiness.....lime green factory, turquoise lanscape, yellow sky, and periwinkle lines. My sister graduates next week. Which means I will graduate in two years.....bettter to have a terminal degree than a terminal illness. Oops, that was dark. Maybe I should not go public this early in the morning. Well. enough for now. Maybe it will be another year before I update this silly thing. Maybe not. Maybe I will start wearing a stone washed denim jacket, covered in buttons that proclaim "I heart my blog", "Blogs: The new frontier", "Bloggers are Better".

The week I have always waited for.....

2006-05-17T08:07:00.000-07:00

Since my return to the Q, I have had this deadline. Now it is here....the paintings are done. My web site is up. I have been handing out postcards like I was trained by the Jehova's Witnesses. I have one shift left to work at the resteraunt before 9 days off. All I need to do is get my paintings to the gallery, and then allow myself to relax...I think I can, I think I can....

New Chapters.....

2006-05-13T09:17:00.000-07:00

Wow. Now I have a new website(shout out to the lovely Lisa Solomon of San Francisco for designing that piece of technological wonder), and I guess I should start updating this thing. It was so easy while in Europe, but now I have no idea.....Do you really want to hear the uproarious game of Cranium that I played last night? The pleasure of sleeping outside everynight in my boyfriend's "sleeping hut" ? The wild anticipation, anxiety, and elation I have about my upcoming show. I guess I wil spend my morning reading other people's blogs and trying to figure out what you, the audience, really wants to get out of this. Tata for now.

new

2006-05-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

Somnambulations in Spain, Awakenings inthe Alps, Irony in Italy

2005-06-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Madrid, looking forward to doing laundry and eating at my new favorite falafel joint. AS I munched on falafel, Gustavo came rushing in, and dragged me out by the hand. Within minutes, I was being led through a crowd of thousands, each of my hands held by sweet yet sturdy Venezuelan men, into the pulsing throngs of people gathered for a free concert by none other than the mania inducing Shakira. I was so delighted to be guided through a comfortable crush, not thinking, just moving. It was lovely.When Shakira finished her songs, hip shakings, and swoon enducing torso wigglings, fireworks were lighting up the boulevards of marble facades and a mulititude of smiling, upturned faces. It was great.
My next epic day will be called the Phallic Day. Barcelona. On a recommendation, I went to the Museum of Erotica. A seven foot wooden penis greeted me at the door, followed by rooms of every assortment of sex and it,s acoutrements. Very interesting.... I then toured the Casa Mila, one of Gaudi's masterpieces. The most enchanting part was the roof, where the chimneys spire toward the heavens in a diverse aray of plaster and mosaic. Of course, I happened to eavesdrop on a Feminist Art historian lecturing a class on the sexuality that is thick in Gaudi's work. Next, I walked up to Guell Park, with a view of lovely city below me verigated with cathedrals, monuments,the modern and the old. One of Barcelona's most iconic buildings is a gleaming, massive sky scraper, the shape of an elongated egg, kind of like...oh, never mind.
All this time in Spain(now in what seems to be very distant retrospect)I was kind of a zombie. Maybe knowing the language kept the "oh my goddness! I am in a foreign country!" syndrome at bay. Sure, I was blessed to see many wonderful things and expand my knowledge of the world immensley, but I realized when I hit Switzerland that I had been absorbing and full of delight, but not really processing with every ounce of my being.A sleepwalking sponge.
So Switzerland kicks ass. I show up, and my first impression is that it was so quiet, so few cars. No MTV blaring and conversations taking the tone of heated arguements. And everything is so full of trust...people do not lock their bikes, train conductors assume that you have a ticket if you are riding a train, people use crosswalks and the cars actually stop! I think an Aquarian designed the Swiss mentality....follow the rules, and everyone will have a good time. But, alas this is all my first impression. Suddenly I realized....the Swiss Franc? A country with 4 official languages? How the hell was I going to order a cup of coffee and pay for it with out making a total ass of myself? Luckily(although quite disturbing)the Swiss LOVE what they call "American English", so I survived quite nicely! Although the culture shock did give me a wake up call.
Let me pause for a moment to get on my knees in gratitude to Richard Levy, who generously sent me tickets to the olympics of contemporary art in Basel! I went to the biggest, fanciest, most prestigious, and most overwhelming art experience this girl could ever concieve of attending. The art fair was huge.Of course I bought a swanky little outfit thinking I could blend in with the buyers, collectors, the swirl and glam and twinkle of the art world. HA! That placed clanged of power and profit,not the saw dust scents and paint splatters that I associate with art. I was there on Preview day, which basically felt like a hurricane of amazing art, money and red dots (signifying SOLD) flinging themselves about. It was great.
Then.....The ALps. THe most amazing few days I have had. I could not stop myself, I was like a hungry dog let loose in a butcher shop. After lugging around my tortoise shell of a backpack and having the bummer of a injured foot and feeling city clogged and smog choked and subway jostled, the alps were like a tall glass of cool water on a hot day.The air smelled of marzipan and under ripe nectarines. The cultivated flower beds in the mountain villages paled in comparison with the wild prismatic blooming of the alpine slopes. Farms cling like house flies to the face of the mountains, like satellites of the viridian valley floor, thousands of feet below. As much as Kansas is about flatness, or any beach is about the ocean, the Alps are about enormity of scale. The bulk of those stone monsters defies perspective or comprehension. I hiked like a madwoman, intoxicated on thin oxygen, expansive views, the crunch of glaciers underfoot, the seductive embrace of clouds, the dizzying heights. I never hiked less than 12 hours in a day. And I recieved the best, albeit sexist, compliment of my life. The burly Swiss man who ran the Grindelwald Hostel helped me plan a few hikes, and I guess he assumed I would hike up, and then take a gondola down(all the summits have gondolas going to them), yet everyday I hiked up and back, leaving at dawn, returning at dusk. Finally he told me I was insane and that I hike like a Swiss MAN! I look better in my short shorts, so my conclusion is that I hike BETTER than a swiss man!
I had to drag myself away from those mountains. What finally did me in was the MAtterhorn....it looked so small,just a big rock, and heck, I didn't want to CLIMB it, just walk the entire way around it. No go, but I am probably in 200 Japanese tourist's photos as I returned to town, sunburnt and glistening with mountain joy. "OOOH! You climb mountain? Me take photo."
Then, into the sweltering land of Italy. In Milan, I pretty much slithered around, like a snail in a pool of my own sweat, contemptuous of all the super-model-look-alikes for their powdery dry faces,bouyant hair-does and snooty composure under the evil opression of the mean sun. Everyone said it was a hot streak, but I thought they were just being sympathetic to my pouting and perspiring.
Highlights of Italy thus far: ***the outdoor opera in Verona at the Colloseum. My ass ached on the same stone steps that have held asses for thousands of years! ***Venice, venice, oh venice. That city charmed me. The 51st Biennial of contemporary art, representing many countries, woven through the city rocked. The canals reflecting buildings the color of sunsets, the gelatto, the whole experience was GREAT! ***And now,I am in the stupendous, incredible, fantastic city of FLorence! It is like taking a walk through an art history book. Every building has some familiar feel to it, every church seems to house a Michelangelo or Donatello. My new favorite trick? Go to the church after tourist hours, and tell the guard that I would like to go to confession.They ALWAYS let me in, and then I have these amazing churches to myself.And I do make confessions, under my breath, in my head. I confess to being awestruck, thankful, humble in the face of such great artistic genius, small in these expanses of marble and stone and frescoed domes that really do resemble heaven (if I believed that heaven was full of bearded old dudes and Baby Jesus' with faces like middles aged men). So I am bending the rules, and having a wonderful time.The irony? That I have done all the most amazing things, the most romentic things, the most inspiring things alone. Next time, I might invite someone, so I can ride a venitian gondola with company, suck up linguini a'la Lady and the Tramp, and all that. Thanks for sticking it out to the end of this epic update. Ciao for now!

*¡HIGHLIGHTS!***

2005-06-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

******MADRID: *Seeing my beloved friend, Gustavo after four years of seperation. We figured out that this visit was exactly the 4 year aniversary of when we last parted ways-he for his native Venezuela, me for a semester in Central America. *The Reina Sofia! The Prado! I am becoming well acquainted with the feeling of " Holy Guacamole! I studied this exact piece of art in school! I have seen prints of this a million times! I have written essays about this! It really exists!" I was so inspired. So awestruck.I would have been happy to grow roots in front of The Garden of Earthly Delights. *Hanging out in Chueca, Gustavo´s neighborhood. They pay an arm and a leg to live in a tiny one room studio apartment in the thriving, swarming, headturning, eyepopping, never sleeping gay district. *Going out in queer Madrid. This activity only begins at midnight. It is like a multi-course feast...start small and build up to a main course at about 5 am. Our main course was a 3 floor club named COOL. I was very underdressed style wise, and overdressed in the amount of clothing I wore. I was truly mesmerized(I forgot to dance, to look like I was hip, and just stared, open mouthed for a LONG time) by their dancers. Men on platforms that had angel faces, bodies like Syvester Stalone, then these little tiny thongs on (made of 2 pieces of string and a piece of cloth a fraction of the size of a banana peel. Really, a fascinating article of clothing. Especailly when the man wearing this is on a platform, kicking and swivelling. Better than TV!)and red high heels. I loved it!
******I hate to admit this, but SHOPPING!!!! I have had major restraint, except for this morning when I bought sequinned, Morrocan house slippers.uhh... I think this South Spain sunlight has boiled my brains. Here is my fashion update of the hippest of the hip:The mullet.The rat tail. The faux-hawk. Piercings and tatoos.Cowboy boots. Heroin skinny. Clothes that fall off and show uniquely constructed undergarmets. The hybrid look between the forest elf, bag lady, new mexican ranchero, and punk rocker. Shoes with curly toes. Loafers. And two things that I hope get out of style before they reach the USA: overalls and cameltoes.
*****THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PORTUGAL:A highlight in itself. Even though it was boiling hot and smelled like soggy tuna fish sandwiches, those little bitty beds are the coolest!
*****SINTRA, PORTUGAL: I stepped off the bus in this village, and shed a tear straight from my heart. It was too beautiful, too perfect, too romantic to be experienced alone. But, I bit the bullet and dove in. Perched on the mountain above town are an assortment of castles, in an assortment of styles, ages, and states of decay. I so wanted to run around the turrets and dungeons and tiny catwalks of the old Moorish castle and pretend to be a damsel in distress, to slay dragons, and kiss my knight in shining armour. Alas, one can not do these things alone very well. Upon my descent into the village, I walked through canyon-like streets, breathing the sent of honeysuckles and far-travelled sea breezes, and showers of rose petals blew off thousands of bushes into my path. It was pretty darn magical!
*****THE CHAPEL OF BONES,Faro, Portugal. Yep. Just what it sounds like. A whole chapel built of exhumed monks. The height of gothic architecture, yet all made of bones. 13,000 skulls!
*****REAL ALCAZAR, Sevilla, Spain: My first acquaintance with islamic architecture. Mind blowing. Acres of intricately carved plaster, fountains, pools, gardens, tiled mosaics. These tiles boggled my mind. The geometry, the exquisite combinations of shapes, the ways in which a flat plane and the crossing of straight lines can emulate all the depth of the universe, the mystery of life, the expanses of nature. I really dug it. I tried to draw some of these patterns in my sketchbook....I will just say my highschool geometry teacher would be very dissappointed.
****LA MEZQUITA, Cordoba, spain: I always imagined that when I saw acres of candy cane striped arches, I would have the urge to take off running through them, galloping and guffawing. Instead I just wandered slowly, absorbing what 850 black marble columns, holding up double red and white striped arches looks like. Also in this single building is a Rennaissance Cathedral and an insanely delicate Islamic chapel, covered in gold and mosaics. All three sections are masterworks of pattern and rythm, but on such different scales, with such different modes of expression. It is like comparing the sparkle of the ocean with the sparkle of a diamond. Yet it all there in the same space. Spectalar, to say the least!
*****AND....the best things has nothing to do with Europe. I have heard, not seen, that my paintings are in the June issue of Art in America!!!!! Page 57! OH my goodness! The make it or break it people somehow discovered little old me! I feel like running to the top of the Alhambra, here in Grenada, and composing a spontaneous opera in gratitude to the generosity of life and the surprises that it holds! I could do a backflip with the joy I feel!I have been content to put my heart and soul into my work and someone noticed!I thought I would be thirty or forty or dead before anyone not related to me took notice of my work. It is like what they say "Things happen when you least expect it." I take a break from working, come to Europe, and am bursting at the seams with inspiration and need to paint. And, behind my back, one of my dreams has come true! OK, enough of my explosions of jubilance.
*******LOVE! That is the best of all highlights in life. Love to you all,my faithful fan club.

Salvaged!

2005-05-17T02:21:00.000-07:00

I am on the mend. My head is screwed on straight, my heart is beating with without the hiccups of homesickness and pessimism, and I cut off my foot with a swiss army knife and bought a new one, and it works quite well. Just joking.
As I was writing my last update, I think the cosmos was looking over my shoulder, laughing at my sense of doom, planning an about-face. I met my guardian angel as soon as I turned away from the computer screen. A boisterous Brazillian,flute playing 45 year old federal employee named Walter.He gets to knows everyone, has walked the Camino three different times,has a heart of gold and a very wicked sense of humor, speaks enough languages and laughs often enough that every pilgrim calls him "My friend Walter". He was also crippled with leg problems and we made a tenative pact to hitch hike out of town at dawn the next morning. Somehow, by the next morning, he had found us a ride to Leon in an Italian luxury car with two jolly Spaniards.By that night, I had seen the most awe inspiring kaleidescope of a church, sang on the street corner with an Italian named Claudio, watched my first Formula One car race with a bar full of men, and experienced an afternoon of culinary delights(mountains of octopus, platters of cheese, bottles of rioja and rosé, and then Hierbas, a deliciously dangerous neon green liquor). After lunch, bottles strewn the table, guitars were being passed around the resteraunt, songs were sung in Italian, Spanish, Portegese, and English. The waitress and her parents who owned the resteraunt sat with us, sang with us. I expected the sky to be dark when we finally exited the resteraunt into the canyon-like streets, but it was only afternoon. This is why the Spanish take a siesta....I think they live two days worth in every 24 hours. That afternoon, I watched football(soccer), went to mass,and repeated the drinking and singing until 2 in the morning, and then limped home, still singing. It was then that we parted from the men who had given us a ride. I believe it was the most fulfilling result of hitch hiking this world has ever seen,for all parties involved. And, for me, the world outside the Camino was stretching open. What a warm welcome.
Generosity flowed. The waitress took Walter and I to an osteopath, took us to a pharmacy, bought our drugs, and then took us to the Cathedral. We were on a mission. The very groovy doc had told us of a secret. Inside the spectacular Leon cathedral was the cure to our ills. We had to walk counterclockwise around the church,against the flow of people. There is an old tomb with a hole knocked in the side. According to the doc, people who stick their heads in the hole and say their three most heart felt wishes outloud will have one of them come true. I won´t say what the wishes were, but to be in the most beautiful church I have ever seen while the evening vespers were being sung in latin, bent over with my ass in the air and my head in the musty incense scented dark of a 800 year old stone tomb made me laugh hard enough that I didn´t care about my wishes any more.
The next day I said a sad goodbye to Walter and went to Santiago de Compostela by train.It was really strange to arrive in that town not by foot. To suddenly have lost the pilgrim identity, the loose comradarey of stinky tired people,was a shock. I celebrated my newfound tourist status by shaving my legs and with an overpriced tourist dinner.That town gave me a new definition of the word "monumental". There are not really streets, just narrow spaces between gloriously decorated, enormous buildings. The highlight of the next day came when thought I was ready for bed. I was watching the moonrise over the wildly carved moss-covered stone spires of the Cathedral, when I saw a familiar face! Walter, the bossanova singing, pep-talk giving, shit-talking angel! We waltzed around town, suddenly feeling like we owned the place,so happy to have a friend again.
The next day we went to Finesterre, the end of the earth. Where monsters once grumbled beyond the horizon, waiting for ships to sail off the the disk shaped earth into their snapping celestial jaws. I stayed for 3 days alone.Rain fell in silver torrents from the sky, pirate faced fishermen mended opalescent nets on castle walls, a rainbow of tiny boats filled the port. I ate seafood paella about 30 feet from the oceans edge, drew pictures,slept alot, and imitated Friedrich´s painting"Monk By the Sea" . My last real "pilgrim" interaction saved my foot from the blade of my swissarmy knife, and my mind from the bog of eternal gloom. A guy watched me walk across a cafe and said "You have a very accute case of...." Some long word, the medical term for what most people call a collapsed arch. So no wonder walking half the way across this country hurt so frickin´bad! This foot and hand doctor(a profession one would want to keep a secret while walking the camino) said I would get better, and I had had survived one of the most painful foot ailments short of broken bones. I am now is Madrid, but there is too much to be said without the filter of retrospection. I promise stories of scantilly clad drag queens, leather bound lovelies, and all kinds of urban mania!

Crippled on the Camino

2005-05-07T07:33:00.000-07:00

Yeah. I do not know what happened. One day I was waltzing along, cheering for my healing blisters and strong legs. The next day, I could barely walk. Porcupines of pain were brawling up into my torso. And it keeps getting worse.I know some people do this pilgrimmage for penitence....I didn´t realize I had this kind of karma coming to me. I must have run over a nun with a dump truck in my past life. It is kind of scary to be walking alone and come over a crest of this almost flat land, and to see the horizon so far away. Just the path, and pain, and no village in sight. But, I am tough, and have made it to where I am, which is more a mind-set than a geographic location. I have decided to let go of the mania with which people approach Santiago. I need to take a break, be a normal tourist for a bit, and maybe continue walking in a little while. I might get X-rayed (although I have realized I have a pretty acute phobia of hospitals after those 4 days in the Nicaraguan military hospital). I think the best medicine will be rest, and some space from this overzealous stream of pilgrims. I am so tired of advice about how to continue walking. I have yet to hear someone say the smart thing, which is "Take a break!" So, I am exiting the flow of bodies towards Santiago, and leaving part of Spain untraversed. I plan on going to Leon. Thrilling to me, there is a huge festival today in honor of Farming Tools and Heavy Machinery. I am in heaven just looking, and I am dreaming of hitching a ride on a bulldozer or a steamroller.....oh,how I drool over industry. Ok, enough for now. There are packs of drunk pilgrims, slobbering and staring at my back, waiting to use this computer. Amor-Nina

Cheers from the Oceans of Green

2005-05-03T05:19:00.000-07:00

The lack of a book is slowly driving me nuts. Three days ago I finished a 1000 page brick and am lonely for literary companionship. The book ¨Shantaram¨was an autobiography of an Australian excaped convict living in Bombay. One of the things I liked the best that I learned about Indian culture was that they name days and groups of people and periods of time. Anything that they plan on commemorating through story telling or celebrating gets a name. They do not have to saÿ "Remember that one time I got attacked by two thousand slugs?" They can just say "On The Night of The Slugs" and everyone knows what they are talking about. Anyways, I have been walking along, giving titles to things. Let´s see,so far I have The Nights of Snoring, self expanatory. And The Night of The Ear Infection, also needs no further, painful explanation. I met The Fountain of Youth Men--four middle aged pilgrims who were convinced that I was the fountain of youth, and who all wanted pictures of themselves with me, in front of the church,eating dinner, drinking coffee, smoking cigaettes, you get the idea.
There was also The Night of Mount Everest.I had known this Canadian named Mary for two days. During dinner one night, the police came with a message from the embassy, saying that she needed to call home. Her husband who had been climbing Everest had died. I had never seen someone go through something like that.I helped her pack her bag and get to the waiting police car, and it was like she was dying and coming back to life with every breath. All she would say was "I really loved him". The next few days as I walked alone, all I could think about is love and life and death. It seems the smartest thing we can do is love really hard, really honestly. The recipient of our love has part of our heart, and we have part of theirs, and it transcends death and distance. Love is a curse if we do not make it worth it.
I stayed in The Worst Pensíon Ever. That is what it was called in my guide book, and that is what it was. There were holes in the floor, mice, and drunk men rattling my plywood door during the night, and a 13 year old running the place. I was just dying to see how bad it could get. It gets bad.
This whole journey has several names. The Plague of Blisters. The Time of Coffee and Cream. I vascilate between loving the porcelain cups and saucers of Europe, and longing for the quitessential American bottomless cup, but I often feel that I walk from one cup of coffee to the next. The best name is The Spring of Many Smiles (it even sounds good in Spanish--La Primavera de Muchas Sonrisas). It is really extraordinary the hospitality of the people along the Camino. I am taking part of a millenium old tradition. I am one of hundreds of thousands of people to walk this road in the last few years. These old ladies sweeping their front steps see hundreds of people like me hobble past, the farmers see lines of backpack laden people swarm past their fields every season, the bartenders have served innumerable beers to stinky pilgrims, yet they all smile and wish me a Buen Camino.
I really am having a damn good time. The fields that stretch away from the path are outlandishly green. I always think that this intensity of green can not last, like a peacock spreading his tail, or a kind-of-pretty woman using makeup to make herself dazzling. But every day, the expanses of land, whether hilly or flat, are rippling in viridian fecundity. I have no idea what this crop is, but it is like walking through days of emeralds. The towns I walk through are incredible. If it were not for the Pilgrimmage, they would have ceased to exsist hundreds of years ago. And in many of these villages I can not tell the difference. Nothing has changed in centuries--no stone walls have been straightened, no paint touched up on wooden shudders, no signs erected to let you know the difference between a bakery, a bar, or a private home. I know that it is my urban American self on vacation, but it is so darn quaint, so extraordinary to pass through these villages on foot, so rich in the wabisabi aesthetic(a japanese word introduced to me by Tim Davis, meaning Lovely Decay).
I am lonely a bit. There are few english or spanish speakers with whom I can converse. There are alot of Germans. Germans seem to only talk to other Germans. Oh, another title: The Disturbing Habit of Overweight German Men to Walk Around in Their Itty Bitty Undershorts. Maybe that is why they stick to themselves. We all look at them with fear and revulsion. When people find out that I am from New Mexico, I often get a funny reaction:"Oh! That is why you speak such great spanish, and why you are so tan, and why you are so muscular!" So, all you New Mexico dwellers, work on your bilingualism, lay out and get buff! We have an international reputation to uphold!
Time passes slowly, at the pace of one foot placed in front of another.Afternoons, I do yoga and drink wine and write in my journal and limp around towns in strange outfits. It is a pretty great life, the best and cheapest I can imagine for a solo journey in an expensive foreign land. I have walked one third the way from France to the west coast of Spain. The main marks of that feat are the blisters on my feet and the calm in my mind. Even the most sporty of pilgrim, the speediest kilometer counter, must know themselves better by the end of this. Enough for now, dear fan club. Nos vemos, cariños!

¡Caminando!

2005-04-18T18:30:00.000-07:00

So, I went to Pamplona and talked to an old guy who gave me this advice"If you know you want to do the Camino, start it today! Why wait? You look very ready." So, I changed into my hiking uniform, mailed all my clothes with any semblance of style to Santiago de Compuestella, and caught a bus up into the Pyrenese. At first I thought the old guy was really wise and sweet, but I spent the last two days thinking he was Satan. Anyways, once in Roncevalles, I knew I was glad to be starting. I slept in a HUGE barn with 80 other pilgrims, I got blessed by a priest in 4 different languages, I was surrounded by people who like to walk and think. The best part of mass was hearing the priests sing in Latin, in a beautiful cathedral, way up in the mountains, at dusk. The funniest thing about mass was when they took an offering, there was a wildly loud chorus of Gortex rustling, heavy duty zippers unzipping, and velcro un-velcroing. Not your average Catholic Crowd.Then, the blizzard. From my journal"We had to walk on the highway because the path was obliterated by the snow. I think I walked about 20 miles today! There was no visibility-Where did those lush green fields and rows of blossoming fruit trees go?Where is the balmy,bucholic sunshine of yesterday? When I could see(through ice crusted glasses, and from under the snow laden brim of my sunhat)endless vistas of pinetrees stooped under their white burden. The horizon was white meeting white. As I descended in elevation, although summiting two mountain passes, the snow got heavier and wetter. Cars, once they reopened the highway, splashed wildly, afraid to loss momentum and skid. The worst moment happened while passing km marker 22(I started at 49). I asked the cosmos to make things just a little better. Nothing, just more snow. Then I asked the cosmos for a sign that things would get better, a symbol into which I could put my optimistic energy.Right then, a snow plow zoomed around the corner,dousing me with a wall of dirty icy mud thrown with bruising force. I wanted to collapse. Just then, The sky brightened, and I could see the little village where I would sleep that night down in the valley.Snowplow as remider that bad things can get worse, but don´t often stay that way for long." At the present moment, all that seems so long ago. Sure it it rained all day yesterday, and the camino is trecherously muddy, but life is GREAT! I am in such stereotypical Spanish wine country. Sloping green fields, mountains in the distance, chapels and fortresses on every hill top,cypress trees, lilacs, and poppies abounding, villages all white washed with red tile roofs, and me happily walking from town to town. I am in Puente de Reinna, for those of you with detailed maps of Spain. This is as deluxe and easy backpacking can get. One gets to shower and sleep in a bed every night, someone else cooks,and you get to drink killer coffee or the delicious vino tinto at all your breaks! deluxe, I tell you! Well, enough for now. More stories later! Buenas noches!

AMERICAN TOURIST GETS MISTAKEN FOR THE LOCH NESS MONSTER

2005-04-15T00:56:00.000-07:00

After trudging around in the rain all day yesterday, I am ready to move on. Little circueteous cobble stone streets are sweet until they are running ankle deep with water and you can not see past the dripping end of your nose. It is beautiful today and I am off to Pamplona. ¡Ole!

¡¡España!!

2005-04-14T05:54:00.000-07:00

Heck yeah, typing on a keyboard with upside down exclamation points and the beloved ñ. I can spell my name Niña! Groovy. So, the flight was interesting. I sat next to an enormous woman from Africa. She was like a large, immobile statue wrapped in yards of green fabric,her only vocab word in English being CocaCola! I never was able to convey my need to get to the aisle, so I sat the entire flight, bladder aching, legs twitching. Bilbao is one kick-ass city. I stayed right across from an amazing foot bridge, which was far more exraordinary than I could ever describe. I could see the Guggenheim from the wine bar in the lobby. I never got lost beyond my comfort. I ate really well. I went to the bus station today, thinking I was on my way to Pamplona. I then decided I needed a beach vacation, so I headed to San Sebastian, which is gorgeous. I am feeling pretty ready to get out of urban settings, and this is pretty darn urban. There is a free ferry out to an island, which I believe I will do this afternoon. So, more later. Love to all!

Colorado, Atlanta, and beyond!

2005-04-07T11:03:00.000-07:00

greeting from my fathers house in Atlanta. This seems to be the land of arduous computer problems, carpenter bees, and sleep patterns reminiscent of high school. I think I have jet lag....or am becoming a vampire. I have stayed up past 3 every morning, and slept until at least noon. My waking hours have been spent in front of the anemic glow of "Bob", my step mother's computer.I now have my photos online,so if anyone reads this who has not seen them, email me and I will email you the Ofoto link. I also will soon have a web site courtesy of my super generous sister and mom. I also have my art on the Richard Levy web site http://www.levygallery.com/artists/projectroom/project.room.html as well as the San Francisco Contemporary Art Fair web site www.aafsf.com.
What do I think about all this? I am leaving and an essence of me will remain through this technology that seems so foreign. After resisting technology, this almost feels like having a reality show all about me. The hard part is that there is no one to edit my rambling output,and no one to force me to slurp up cricket smoothies or swim through shark infested bogs.So, unlike reality TV, unless I start biting people, these nocturnal vampiresque days and nights are producing nothing of interest with which to lure you, my faithful fan club, to read this blog. Have faith, ye of little hope! Once I land in Spain, this might become the trauma-drama-blog of the century! I might become a zealous catholic, hell-bent on sainthood, or I might be consumed by blisters beginning with my heels and then moving up. I also might just have a smashing time and have a zillion marvelous things to say about it. Anyhoo, tata for now.

Back from Mexico

2005-03-29T14:48:00.000-08:00

I just returned from a fantasitc week in Mexico, the most blissful "despedida" a girl could imagine. It was the most fabu road trip with my two best friends and delightful sister, complete with Guns'n'Roses on the CD player, rambling conversations, and squeals of fear about passing semi-trucks on the astoundingly narrow and winding and unpredictable Mexico 1. The great thing is you can't get lost when there is only one paved road in the entire peninsula.The beach, oh the beach. The sea of Cortez has all the good attributes of both a sea and a bathtub. Swimming, kayaking, reading, sleeping,full moon rises, sun rises, divine fish tacos, groovy traveling folks, and the wildly interpretted Easter week, Semana Santa, when all mexican families head for the coast. When I am a bit more acclimated (hmmmm.....I am traveling for the next 4 months...), I plan on really getting into this blog thing. I am imagining tons of photos and witty,wonderful, and entertaining accounts of my equally wonderful travels. For now, my body is trying to be in beach mode. Somehow, removing the majority of my clothes,drinking beer all day, and lounging in the sand worked better in Baja than in Albuquerque! Today consists of paying taxes, shaking the sand from my clothes and re-packing, hugging my fantastic friends, and bidding adieu to my stellar sweetheart, and jumping on the one a.m. bus to Colorado to see my mama. So rock on till next time. I promise photos later!

Nina's New Blog

2005-03-16T10:30:00.000-08:00

Test Run? Is this working?