Check out the art and photography from my recent trip to Jordan, Turkey, Cyprus, and Greece

My shoes wait to be broken into.  They long await the foreign and mysterious terrain of the Hashemite Kingdom.

 Each blister, cut, and soar waiting to make an appearance   Wounds openly welcome; a pain I look forward to.  

My finger nails long for dirt.  They long to break and chip and crack.

The immortal smell of hookah fills my head with a constant dizziness; a anticipated dizziness.  

My body years for exhaustion.  It begs to be abused and pleads for no mercy; a crusader.  

My ears ready to hear.  And my eyes ready to see.  Restless the refuse to close.  

My clothing clings to the bars of its suitcase cage, begging for release.  To be ripped, torn, dirtied, and perhaps if lucky, forgotten in this land they so love.  

My body ready, my body willing, my body here. 

My other two tattoos

As a human rights activist I thought I’d use my body as a canvas to dedicate my passion

My newest tattoo- a bitten apple.  

I had always seen apples as a symbol of seduction, but also of knowledge and immortality.  

The apple is bitten representing my sexuality.  Also, the apple resembles the apple Eve bit in the bible symbolizing the downfall of man…I am the downfall of man

Medusa by Carvaggio

So I have no one at work to share my story with nor do my “Friends” inquire about last night’s events ( witht he exception of my best friend Jacqueline who is certainly my rock in life); therefore, I turn to you, like a flower to the sun, a wave to the shore. 

So everytime I break up with a boyfriend I usually go through the “oooh mahh gawd, its me” phase SO as means of attacking this Daddy Complex reprecussion I join PlentyofFish which is a dating website to bring back some type of confidence in myself although, yes, I am well aware that confidence comes from within, yadah yadah yadah. 

Well, I just let people inbox their desires for me, their passions, their interest, and their numbers.  Who wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning with messages divulging the inner most lust of men and expressions of beauty.  I am all in for that.  I find myself objectifying men more and more quite frankly.  Payback. 

So one day while getting ready for the 9-5 job I apparently love soo much I received a notification on my way too expensive iPhone from POF about some guy who sen tme a message.  It would have just been glanced at and deleted.  But something was different, perhaps it had nothing to do with him and the change was all me OR it was him and not me at all.  I can’t remember what the message said but I responded.  From a response a week ago to kisses on the Brooklyn Bridge last night, I’ve got that “fuck, i thought all men were pigs.  wow, maybe they aren’t.  ah, butterflies” feeling. 

So last nigth at 10:30 I sat on the steps on my university, Pace, across from City Hall and just anxiously spoke to my best friend on the phone waiting the arrival of my date, my Turkish, Kurdish, tattoo artist, date.  And then he appeared and I could do nothing…..BUT GIGGLE!  Greeted with a hug and light kiss on the cheek the night that was soo quickly ending and becomming morning began. 

We walked along the bridge walking through each others’ pasts, presents, and futures.  Turkish lessons, quick but piercing glances, and the occasional sequinned heel stuck in the wooden planks of the bridge falling.  It was hot.  We were sticky but the sticky body of the man had not yet touched the stick body of the woman. To Brooklyn Heights Promenade we landed and conquered.  Getting there was no easy task.  A festival had take place earlier and we made our way through oceans of bodiees leaving the promenade.  Clearing the scene for our crime to be made.   (ah fuck, Pandor is now playing ” You could be happy” by Snow Patrol……way to force me into pensivity pandora!)  So we reached the stairs overlooking Manhattan, there were no stars really just lights of the buildings.  But they were certainly our stars last night. 

We both wanted to kiss.  It was undeniable.  We sat there fiddling, speaking little speak that was irrevleant and probably forgotten in the midst of butterflies.  I don’t remember how it happened, what was said, who looked at who first, but the kiss ignited this passion, trembling in my soul, that was in a deep slumber, somber and hibernating.  And might I say, DAMN what a good kisser.  But they were kisses that I didn’t want to open my eyes.  They refused to stop their lust.  As if our eyes are connected to our lips.  Perhaps that is just it.  They are connected.  It is inherent, the eyes close, the lips meet, the hands grasp.  For I know my eyes were diligent in not opening.  Diligent in kissing him so hard.  What a great night not to use hair products.  He ran his hands through my hair with romance and ease. His beard brushed and tickeled my cheeks, hot and red as they were.  Between kisses we spoke of life, politics, and without words but eyes we spoke of our want for each other. 

As the passion-crushing cops approached us to inform us that the park was closed we stumbled our way through the park haltng every few footsteps to steal a kiss from the other.  Heels were not the best option for tonight.  I did not realize I’d be treding through terrane of all sorts.  I apologize to my feet only briefly and lightly.  Making our way back to the Brooklyn Bridge, making our way back to the end where we so didn’t want to be, the walk was one of holding hands, holding each other, and holding of hearts.  I could be exagerating because of the whole daddy complex and I tend to fall soo easily at times, but perhaps not.  We had reached the second half of the bridge where we just stopped and starred at one another.  I’m not quite sure or remember really howit all happened but I found myself hoisted up again the walls of the bridge,  defying gravity and death, making out.  When the eyes did open it was a view of the whole city, a man starring back at me, and utter fear of falling over the bridge that claimed me.  We sat, two hippies with shoes off, legs intwined, ingoring passerby.  It was 3am when we decided it best to continue the journey into division.  He at the train stop at City Hall and me to my apartment on Fulton.  The kisses at the trainstation seemed to be kisses taken to remember.  Long, passionate, surprisingly soft and sweet, yet hard and rough.  

He went right and I went left.  I just had the best date with a communist tattoo artist who would be leaving in September for Turkey.  I was the first girl he kissed in New York.  While he wasn’t my first boy to kiss in New York, he was certainly the first real kiss I had in New York.  Shame on me for wasting soo many other kisses on nameless lips.  My walk home was filled with smiles, giggles, and sore steps in heels that I wish were flipflops.  I fell asleep texting him and woke up to him.  Not sure if I would want it any other way. 

And now….now I’m at work contemplating bringing a dress back to TJ MAXX so I can put more money on my metro card so I can see him…..but i loooovvveee that dress!  zout alors

Might I just say— this is 100 times better than 50 Shades of Grey…..just sayin’ He also brought me a present— a hookah of my own!  Now, that is a good man. 

Alors, ses baisers étaient infinies. Je souhaite seulement que la nuit était sans fin, ainsi. 

The Mummer’s Dance by Loreena McKennitt

Painting by John William Waterhouse.  Inspiration for my new tattoo

The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennison

Part I.


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”


Part II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.


Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.


Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse—
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro’ the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot;
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”