BE*WITCHED.

Sweet coupled airs we sing.
No lonely seafarer
Holds clear of entering
Our green mirror.

-The Odyssey

Inspired by an episode of Oprah today featuring Raquel Welch, known perhaps more famously for her sexpot status a la One Million Years B.C. than her contributions to film (unless you count wearing animal skin loin cloths as 'contributions'), I visited some of the prevailing women of the last century who defined SEX ICON and changed not only film and women's place in it, but much of our conversations and discussions on male/female relations. Strangely intrigued by these siren songs of beauty and carnal objects of lust and desire for men (and women, I need mention), I think that there has always been something beguiling and mysterious about the heavy-lidded, tease-tressed sexpots, what with their lips ever so slightly parted and their dreamy bedroom eyes begging silent invitation. With much of their appeal centered squarely on their sulking beauty and glowing sensuality, the women featured below are a few amongst the pantheon of World War II pinups and tribute magazine spreads legions of men and women have come to iconify.

Marilyn Monroe

Brigette Bardot

And while their beauty is intoxicating, dreamy even, what with their coy smiles and generous figures beckoning the eye their direction, there is something so tragically marred about these archetypal 'femme fatales', who seemed to carry with them an elixir containing both a bounty of power and impending calamity. Take it back to Homer's Odyssey, set in 12th century BC, where the Sirens sing a song so irresistible, Circe warns Odysseus to plug the sailor's ears with beeswax and have them tied to the mast if they wish to go onward with their treacherous journey. This idea of temptation as a deadly threat is no novel idea, harkening back to Biblical times with the first original ancestors of sexual deadlock , Sir Adam and Madame Eve. Postmodern cinema and Hitchcock films of noir showcase these cutting figures of device and trickery as the lady in wait casts a sort of magical spell over the trembling men who are so lost in desire, they see only crimson.

Elizabeth Taylor

Tempted to call it mere fantasy, it's more than just that, as a power play shifts into gear, one's feminine wiles used as tricks of allure to advance one's personal gains. This interlocking exchange between power and tantalizing seduction among men and women is self-evident from literature to films and music and even in our most esteemed governmental institutions. The women captured in this post are only a few of the beauties who captivated audiences and suitors over the last century; their lives were heralded, their deaths declared tragedies. For the ones whose lives and careers were cut short, we are left to wonder whether they were driven to their grave by the very success which made them into superstars. However, upon closer examination, in our impassioned urges to assign blame, it becomes clear that it was no mere ploy of the directors and film studio heads whose low budget films profited immensely from these women's draw. We see, indeed, the way these women used and profited themselves, turning their faces and bodies into commodities, tools for profit and self-advancement.

Italian beauty, Sophia Loren

Jayne Mansfield

Rita Hayworth

Bardot

Betty Page

Betty Grable

Jane Russell

Nights on the Bay.

During those days where your stomach eats you alive from the nerves and stress, I take a DEEEEEEP ass breath, inhaling and exhaling with intention. I blast that Thievery Corporation and watch the scenery whiz by my window. Oh Bonnet Carre Spillway, how I adore/abhor you. Louisiana, you are boatloads of fun and soul, but pretty you are not. Some days I miss Cali with such a vengeance. What I'd give to be sitting on top of San Fransisco, staring out at the glittering lights skimming off the Bay. Lost in nostalgia. Reverie. Eating a bowl of Papamingo tart yogurt, mango and mochi piled atop. Sucking on the spoon, closing my eyes, losing myself in the swirl of the energy pumping through the warm night air. Relishing the dopeness that is CALI.

Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom

I've been following Mystic for years, appreciative of a female MC who delivers as much intelligent delectation to her lyrics as soul personified. I looove her raw honesty, hard spit on real shit and real issues (listen to Fatherless Child, Spoken Peace and Fallen Angels) and ability to stay versatile and yet so true to her game.

twisted elegance.

I am enamored by beauty, in people, places and things. My cousin told me, that as a child, I had a peculiar penchant for insightful observation. I would sit on doorsteps, stare out the windows of buses during our impromptu excursions, or go plucking about on the Los Angeles city streets... and I would just stare at the scenery enfolding before my very eyes. I would marvel at an upturned smile on a passer-byers face, lapse into existential reverie passing by the decaying feet of a transient lying on a bench, hop in and out of puddles with my makeshift, paper-sewn sandals... I remember, most specifically, going to Century City mall with my petite yet noble Korean grandmother, as we fingered the clothing in upscale retailers, touching the fabric with a curious delicacy, following its folds and texture. She would look at the tag on the inside, and with a nod and a cheeky grin of smug satisfaction, say "Good", if the item happened to be made in the United States. If it were made in Hong Kong, she would crinkle her nose and move along.

That love and appreciation for beauty has translated in many different ways, physical and immaterial. I've found also, that beauty for me has evolved or metamorphasized over the years and the accumulation of life experiences. For me, beauty is not always pretty. In fact, some of the most beautiful aspects in life lay bare in those battle scars, hard fought and hard won, but mightily claimed. I began to develop an almost vulgar taste for the acrid, the sorts of films and plotlines that were anything but virtuous or whimsical, devoid of the prototypical, Walt Disney sugary ending. Movies that once haunted me became embodiments of truth, stripped of artifice and vaingloriousness. I watched films such as The Virgin Suicides, American Beauty, Blow, Monster, Behind the Sun and City of God with a sense of savage rage, blood-curdling passion, reckless abandon, renewed luminosity... And yet I found, in those sad endings, tragic story lines, and maladroit adaptations of our tortured existence, a life LIVED.. truly, richly and densely. I made sense of the insensible, found beauty in the grittiness, understood more deeply the binaries and dichotomies crossing the span of generations, and related to the pain, the atrocity, the hypocrisy with an almost unnerving acuteness.

i'm still finding myself, what it means to be human. what it means to fall and fumble and yet still rise. what human dignity means, compassion, a sense of unbridled righteousness and strength in even turbulent waters. i rise and i stand, aware of the possibilities that lie in wait as the world turns and the horizons expand beyond the naked eye's wildest imagination. This, I Know.

Thank God I didn't give up shopping for Lent...

I'm torn between two pairs of shoes that I'm currently coveting. Fashion forward people, care to deliberate? I love how the first pair are great for the every day, and the ones below that are just such foot candy (I fell in love with the t-straps on Swank Height's blog). YOUR OPINION COUNTS!!!!!

A)


OR THESE?

B)


C) OR HOW ABOUT JUST BOTH?

VALIDATION, a short film.

This was a short film sent to me years back and I fell in love with the simple yet sweet storyline- what can I say, I'm a sucker for the "feel good" type of stuff. But sometimes, we need those simple reminders of the small things that make life oh so grand.

St. Patty's Shenanigans

Ohhhhhh, St. Patty's, St. Patty's.

The city is cast with a green glow- let me forewarn you, even the BEER is green here, in New Orleans.

Had a blast and a half yesterday at the St. Patty's Parade here in NOLA (come on, when is there ever a reason to NOT throw a parade here?) where beaucoup- pronounced BUCCU- people flooded the streets in their green regalia to celebrate the day dedicated to uhhh-getting shit-faced? Haha. It was a lot of fun actually- I wish I took more (and better) pix of the action. Of course you had your classic "Everyone loves an Irish girl" t-shirt and a twist on the classic- "Everyone loves a drunk girl" tee. A guy wore a shirt emblazoned with "Kiss me. I'm shit-faced." I met a man wearing a floor-length green ball gown with a wig, fairy dust, green painted finger-nails- his name is Aaron and he's an office manager, buahahah!

Me, Jamie, and the gang gathered at First and Magazine where we chillaxed in the fucking incredible midday sun, drinking margueritas, Irish car bombs, Guinness'- you name it, we had it. And it was just so festive and FUN- the cute Irish boys in the parade line would come up to us and tuck flowers in our hair (the tradition is that you exchange kisses on the cheek- how very French, uhh, I mean Irish), toss beads and cabbage (nothing, I mean NOTHING is more romantic than a man throwing wilted produce at your feet) at us and even pull up panties and garter belts up the leg if you happened to be a lucky recipient.

It was all good! I love this city, I fucking LOOVE it. I still feel the need to hide my open drink or beer every time I pass a cop, but then I remind myself- Jeanine, it's all good in tha hood, baby! So after a lazy, chill, sun-drenched afternoon of playing in the sun, dancing in the streets and drinking up a storm, I passed out, in a proper sun-dazed, intoxicated asphyxia, reveling in the good ol' Irish roots (yeah, right, I wish) and day dedicated to all things green and splendid.

Now, I just need to go eat me bowl of lucky charms!

BAOBAB.

I feel like Ms. Carrie Bradshaw herself, surreptitiously whipping out her laptop in the wee hours of the morning, perched in a jaunty manner on duvet, purporting the whimsical anecdotes of a day into fine print...


Are you (yes, you) really reading this? would be her first question, because I still can't seem to get over the fact that people would extract minutes out of their daily lives to read some off-handed entry dedicated to god-knows-what... Again, readers, I AM GRACIOUSLY STUPEFIED and delighted (And no, I'm not going to get over it).

With that said.... oohhhhh, the ruminations of a day well spent, catching up in all manners of mind, body and soul. I took the day off yesterday in pursuit of the world's finest beauty remedy and that is SLEEP, ladies and gents. (You can see from the odd hours of my postings that I've become, I'm afraid to admit, somewhat of a insomniatic busy-body, trolling the midnight hours in restless agitation, overcome with some thought, some idea that has my tongue lolly gagging and my mind adrift.) So, sleep and exercise, and oh yes, good food. And a wonderful night filled with good, kind, trueeeee people.

The non-profit organization I work with, the Baobab Youth Leadership Initiative, put on a Silent Auction Gala last night at the Children's Museum in Nola. I have been blessed to work with this organization as a mentor to a high-school student, or Leader, as they are called for the duration of more than half a year now. This organization works with up and coming high school students in distressed New Orleans communities, socio-economically speaking, who determine to rise above the dismal circumstances, statistics and stereotypes which attempt to define their place-value in life and circumvent their pathways to success. The year-long project filled with education, leadership building skills and service caps off with an amazing trip to the Motherland in Ghana, Africa, where these student leaders will find themselves, for the first time in their young adult lives, in world very much outside the bubble of their hometown and also, a sort of alternate reality (much like the one I found when I visited Zambia 2 summers past).

Therefore, the event I attended last night was held in order to raise funds for the student leaders' trip to Ghana this upcoming summer. Everything was organized and distributed by the student leaders themselves, who worked vigilantly to gather items for auction and raffle. Hundreds of people came to support the high-schoolers in their mission, grazing on hors dourves donated by the kind folks at Robert's (pronounced the French way, of course) and lapping up yummy drinks at the open bar, all in tune to the sassy and deliciously loud Young Fellaz Brass Band. I had a loooveeely time, and more so, was extremely appreciative of the 8 personal friends who graciously supported the endeavor with their wallets and attendance. Twas a success!

If you'd like more information on this organization, or want to support through your own kind-hearted donation (100% of proceeds goes towards their trip!), check out the website:

http://www.baobableaders.org/

All for now! Tchau~

Hum Ho Dee Dum Dum

I apologize for the inconsistency in my posting, for those of you that regularly tune in (honest to god- it's still overwhelmingly flattering and gratifying, this idea that there's a larger world out there who finds your senseless rants, queries and musings note-worthy to some degree)...


After a week of non-stop flitting about, from one activity to the next, my mind has had ZILCH unoccupied space for creative bubbling and fizzing. After nearing the point of absolute EXHAUSTION, I decided it would be necessary to take the day off on Friday as a routine-check "mental health day" and it is only now that I return to dear blogger and make some semblance of an "update."

I worry, in having any type of general audience, that my once-mindless, nonsensical meanderings which were once the de rigeur have now spontaneously adapted to posts bearing a sense of intended purpose- whether it's to indulge, entertain, enlighten or amuse. With that said, that's an awful lot of pressure to place on a budding writer or anyone for that matter, which is why, in the form of a blog, I will leave my thoughts as they are. No pretense, no fancy accoutrements or bells and whistles. Once you start writing for an audience and less for yourself, there is an abandonment of form- your art becomes subversive and stripped, something like a white-washed tomb.

An interesting thought- the more inert and inactive your body is, the more alert your mind becomes. It is during those lazy, lackadaisical days of idle relaxation my mind starts to take on the makings of a pizza dough factory (me and my corny analogies!), the dough being kneaded and spun until it takes on the rotund shape of a pizza, ready to go into the kiln. But when my body is being put through the grinder, when the bulk of my attention goes towards the fulfillment of priorities, tasks and other menial obligations, I lose a bit of my lust for life and on the back burner this blog goes.

If you're tuning in, thanks. Trust me when I say that inspiration still comes and that creative energies are lying in wait, itching to be revved. I promise you'll be the first to be notified, via blogger. ;)

BREATHE. YOU ARE ALIVE!

There are days where inspiration pours out in endless quantities, and then days where inspiration must be picked like rice grains, with silver chopsticks. There is no doubt that the days have shown me kindness and profound morsels of beauty, even as I attempt to delicately maneuver through the unrelenting currents. In fact, I have found true moments of peace in the oddest of places (amidst trance-like meditation on a treadmill! on the john! driving down that deadening stretch on the Bonnet Carre spillway!), a vibrating hum of energy coursing through my veins with feverish irregularity... and from these moments, a resulting contentment would ensue, that knock-at-your-door reminder that we are, in fact, ALIVE.

I used to walk down the sidewalk, my head down, lost in reverie, on a classically sunny Berkeley afternoon. The spray painted words on the side-walk, "BREATHE. YOU ARE ALIVE," would suddenly pop into vision, dispelling me from my quiet, detached self-absorption as I recanted all my daily "to-do's" and sonorous cerebrations.



I would suddenly stop, part my lips in smile, remembering, Wait! This is my life and by jones, I really AM alive! A breathing, walking, talking and living embodiment of all things contained in the universe. Excuse the cheese factor, as I have my Eckhart Tolle moment and retreat into New Agey- talk, here. But there is a sensuous delight in knowing that your visceral senses are somehow in complete accordance with your translucent, immaterial body and that every moment is a part of The Grand Scheme, in just the same way a pixel makes up an infinitesimal quota of an image. Those moments escape us rapidly, filtering through our larger lives like sand through the fingers. But if you catch them quick enough, remembering to pause and tilt your heads in wonder, you may find that that life is chock FULL of the individually isolated moments that lend meaning to our lives. We may, in fact, remember, through our very breathing, labored or still, that our existing is no small undertaking, and that that, my friends, is short of being the greatest miracle of all.