1. Joe Pass

  4. http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/chocolate-recipes/bloomin-brilliant-brownies

    http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/chocolate-recipes/bloomin-brilliant-brownies

  5. Why we Travel by Pico Iyer  http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/

    Why we Travel by Pico Iyer  http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/

  6. My friend  Vivian Nocum Limpin is travelling solo to Cambodia to be part of an LGBT art exhibit sponsored by Rainbow Community Kampuchea (ROCK). (Her paintings will be exhibited, not her, ok? ;) Wish I could go with you, specially in your side trip to Angkor Wat. Heck, wish I went with you last March to the U! There’ll be Pico de Loro when you get back, sis. And remember the postcard project, ok? I want one of an awesome temple portal ;) Take care and see you soon!

    My friend  Vivian Nocum Limpin is travelling solo to Cambodia to be part of an LGBT art exhibit sponsored by Rainbow Community Kampuchea (ROCK). (Her paintings will be exhibited, not her, ok? ;) Wish I could go with you, specially in your side trip to Angkor Wat. Heck, wish I went with you last March to the U! There’ll be Pico de Loro when you get back, sis. And remember the postcard project, ok? I want one of an awesome temple portal ;) Take care and see you soon!

  12. robots in parallel universes

    robots in parallel universes

  13. WAVING Chance’s afternoon bid crackled through the airwaves. I got up, rooted to the spot, hearing keen, dread-filled, bound to the undead Piper: chirpy tone modulated the fierce credo, fluid(I know what I know), quick wit segued into that hyper, geeky chatter(Art lore, pop and arcana— on speed). The multitude as the monk’s sacrifice and salvation. Does that static translate to a blush? Bashful, amazed, as when caught in passion unaware. Uninvited, an animated face— a crooked grin, corkscrews, crinkles— comes out of the box. How did it get converted via frequencies? I listened for palpitations, gauging heaviness, a tightening, numbness, sudden surges.There there, from the not-unbroken, a constant pulse, akin to water serenely dripping onto stone: unlike the tsunami that wrecked the sand castle— its drawbridge left half-done, that sundered our queer tribe, that nearly drowned their demon dragon; gone are the tumultuous waves that we braved, again and again, during those days in San Juan, throwing our bodies against the rushing tide. Such a silly game, pain, but a necessary rite, our passes to patched-up, saner lives. Rx: no bitter pills needed, no more rage to be lidded, no regrets, as Piaf warbled. Just the same, I still can barely speak his name. I unplugged the seashell, farther from my ears. An echo remains: the soft slap of waves, its kisses to the shore, tentative and brief, returning, again and again, to its source.(July 2011/April 2012)

    WAVING

    Chance’s afternoon bid crackled through the airwaves.

    I got up,
    rooted to the spot,
    hearing keen,
    dread-filled, bound
    to the undead Piper:

    chirpy tone modulated
    the fierce credo, fluid
    (I know what I know),
    quick wit segued into
    that hyper, geeky chatter
    (Art lore, pop and arcana— on speed).
    The multitude as the monk’s sacrifice and salvation.

    Does that static translate to a blush?
    Bashful, amazed,
    as when caught in passion unaware.
    Uninvited,
    an animated face—
    a crooked grin,
    corkscrews,
    crinkles—
    comes out of the box.
    How did it get converted via frequencies?

    I listened for palpitations,
    gauging heaviness, a tightening,
    numbness, sudden surges.
    There there,
     from the not-unbroken,
    a constant pulse,
    akin to water
    serenely dripping
    onto stone:

    unlike the tsunami
    that wrecked the sand castle—
    its drawbridge left half-done,
    that sundered our queer tribe,
    that nearly drowned their demon dragon;
    gone are the tumultuous waves
    that we braved,
    again and again,
    during those days in San Juan,
    throwing our bodies
    against the rushing tide.

    Such a silly game, pain,
    but a necessary rite,
    our passes to patched-up, saner lives.

    Rx: no bitter pills needed,
    no more rage to be lidded,
    no regrets, as Piaf warbled.
    Just the same,
    I still can barely speak his name.

    I unplugged the seashell,
    farther from my ears.
    An echo remains:

    the soft slap of waves, its kisses to the shore, tentative and brief, returning, again and again,
    to its source.


    (July 2011/April 2012)

About me

“I am a phoenix who runs after arsonists.”