jinz migz

because today I was painting a bench after losing myself last night.
the sun was out.
i was burning a bit.
Jenny called and asked how I was.
I then walked to sit in the beautiful canyon.
i draw the rendition of my legs on a watercolor sheet in conte crayon.
odd perspective.
of all the beautiful landscape and the creek trickling in that direction i look down and paint my black dress over my whitened legs.

therapy to watercolor my own figure.
as if the pain of last night is releasing with each brush. each sporadic decision of color and value.

and then jenny meets me.
and seduces me away from painting to go to the coffee cottage.
we walked away from the coffee cottage and while i was there I even reached my paper topic for Levinas.
"justice and responsibility"

i break sometimes.
but all along there is an unspoken gratefulness that potentially stirs tears.
I am blessed by Jenny.
And by the rest who have shown love.

even amidst pain
there is human relationship.

wisdom of love

What is philosophy?
Philo: love
Sophy (Sophia): wisdom
Love of wisdom... <--it is often thought to be true.
Emmanuel Levinas says, no, PHILOSOPHY IS THE WISDOM OF LOVE.

In four days is a 12-15 page paper due. One where I must ask a question based on Levinas' philosophy.
Levinas entire philosophy surrounded by this truth:
I am responsible for the Other.
In four days is also a Mixed Media poetry project due.
In five days: myself and 9 other artists will compete against PNCA and PSU art departments for a Scion car event.
In three days: 40 watercolor paintings.
In two weeks: 5 prints and a presentation.
Next Tuesday: An ethics paper.
Next week: Check out from this apartment (from this semester, from these roommates who have proved a greater blessing than I could have expected or asked for)
And two weeks from tomorrow (monday) I'll sit on a plane that will direct itself to Dublin, Ireland.
meaning that I will again say good bye and good bye and good bye to people so damn dear to me.
I already said good bye to family a few weeks ago in california. And it never proves to become simpler, or easier.

Good bye good bye good bye. Always having to say it. And still I will be okay.
I only ask that you know that I love you
I only ask that in my distance you grasp onto a love that I try to give.
I love ask that you feel my heart for you.
I love you.
I love anyone, or try to at least.
And I love you.
And I cried hard last night. A saturday night. because I am sorry.
I am sorry that I hurt you in times of stress.
I am sorry that I don't always call and seem absent, my family.
I am sorry when I fail you, professors.
I am sorry when I ignore your authoritative call to me.
I am sorry when the stress of life distracts me from loving you.
From loving you as a duty.
From loving you without focus on self.


Last night I was triggered by a tiny event.
A little break, then cracking like vines, spreading like tree branches.

Woe is me. Woe is me. I do not want to act in such a way. I do not want to break into such weakness. I do not want to call for help because I am prideful and broken, yet I also want you here, now.

And I don't know what I want,
but I do know that I eagerly await this summer in a sort of apathy.
I eagerly await a new adventure in a foreign land.

And I know that I am happy (in this moment) in my apartment.
Cyndi (who was once in Spain) is now writing a paper over there on that couch.
I am here "writing a paper" on this couch.
Both of us on this Sunday drinking french press coffee once we realized that my Mbale, Ugandan coffee is out.

And I mostly want you to know that I love you.
Thank you for your love, because I felt it even in the storm that hit last night.
For each of you, I am grateful.
And I beg that you feel my heart hurting and laughing and rejoicing with your sorrows and joys.

tunnel

a semester nearly gone.
blessings.
pains.
it's been over four months since the land of matooke, matatus, and all that.
all that which i love.
so three weeks until i step on yet another journey of which I am the least bit prepared, yet i learn with time that preparation often cannot occur until it forces itself upon you.


ireland, scotland, and then two months in belfast, northern ireland.

let the contrast between worlds of east africa and the united kingdom begin, and prayer as i enter into the tunnel of art and philosophy finals...

to cyndi. spinning in spain. "excuse me, are you americans. Happy Thanksgiving to you."

26 November 2008
Dear Cyndi, I write to you (these words were written a few days ago)
You sip coffee while spinning in Spain. But I am on a green cot, with a warm blanket, and Rwandan ginger tea, writing in pencil pages and pages of my blue journal. and yesterday was most beautiful.
I had a grand mood dancing around. Why? Thoughts of you. Thoughts of home, thoughts of those who I miss. And through the love that you send me, through our connection, through your time in Ronda, Spain, and my moment in Rwanda, East Africa, our souls hop about in joy and I'm able to love those within my proximity.

Let me tell you of my yesterday:
1. A surprise for Sarah's 22nd birthday. Our group has been a bit tense lately. The 13 of us traveling place to place, wishing we had a more permanent home. Each thinking of his or her loved ones back in the States, while Mbish also thinks of those he connects with in Kenya. I had a nice conversation beneath warm sunrays with Mbish the other day. Comparing romantic truths of Kenya with those of America. Through two cultures, we tried to define love. And this last week has been exhausting. We have been venturing back into villages, this time that of the Cyeza area, and I am struck by the green hued beauty of this land of a thousand hills. And by the children wearing rags. But still smiling.
so we threw Sarah a party. and because we prepared this for her, putting together whatever supplies we could find in our little guest house, we felt a unity. and a happiness.
2. Elizabeth, Kati, and I took an hour drive with Ernest to a pottery place. and then we had to walk a bit. but it was a beautiful hike. and i sat watching a potter at the wheel. and I was inspired. I think without words, my Cyn, you know why.

27 November 2008
Dear Cyndi, I think of you again.
Because today is thanksgiving and we are both far from home. Maybe you are crying; I know that I am a bit teary eyed. Because this is a thanksgiving away from those we love, away from tradition, away from comfort. I talked to Mom, Dad, and Cindy last night. And I wished them a good day. I hope that you were able to hear from your mom, or at least feel her love.

And Cyndi, only 7 weeks til we live in the same home. 7 weeks til we combine our Spanish and East African colors and fabrics and stories. 7 weeks til we are able to join, and just be. To rant, to rave, to love, to laugh. Because Cyndi, On thanksgiving I must give thanks.
I am thankful for professors who sacrifice time to aid us with our dreams.
I am thankful for family, sending love endlessly.
I am thankful for art and free expression. Theatre. Studio. Music.
I am thankful for these 4 months away. Struggling. Loving. Learning.
I am thankful for you. For friends like you. But you. I love your habits. I love when you are so honest and blunt. I love your sunglasses no matter how often you wear them. I love your style and your fearless expression. I love your addiction to coffee and the beatles. Your smile. Your natural pout. Your beautiful curly hair that conquers the world. Your authenticity no matter where. Your truthful mannerisms. Your angry morning moments. Your loud alarms. Your everything. There is nothing that you have that I don't love. Because truly I've been blessed with a sister of the spirit. And no words are able to tell you of my grateful sense of who you are. I MUST give thanks for you.

And today you are lonely. I am sure. As I feel a bit off, too, being in a land away from what I know. But you are nearly away from Spain. And embrace this moment. Soon we will be home. Soon we will see America in a different light. And SO soon can we laugh and cry together.

I am sitting again in a coffee shop while Norah Jones is playing overhead. It is beautiful. And I had an iced latte. And tonight we will celebrate thanksgiving with our family here. A nice feeling.

But as my two friends and I sat here on wonderful couches surrounded by African artwork and Rwandan scented coffee beans, a Rwandan man walked up. He asked if we needed anything, and then began to walk away. Only a few moments, though, and he turns back.

"Excuse me, are you Americans? Happy thanksgiving to you."

Sometimes angels linger near. And I think this angel meant to reach you, as well, dear Cyn.

So I give thanks for breath, for life, and for the ability to share pain and smiles across cultures. And across continents. 15 days until I fly home. And absence makes the heart grow fonder.

and my grandchildren will have shoes.

written sketches of my afternoon session in Cyeza Village to be used for later blank canvas'


a beautiful lady.
blue striped blouse with collar.
fabric of yellow, maroon, ocean with dry desert color.
head wrap once white, now dirtied by years of pain
through a genocide.
through loss of husband.
contemplative. observant.
brown. cafe' eyes. lips creased.
years. days. moments.
gunshots of 1994. near and I can only imagine.
children. five of them.
wealthy by title but no. not by other standards.
uses a well. a free source for the community.
clean this well on Wednesdays because children dirty it.
once young. I wonder what she was like.
I wonder who she loved. how she feel deeply in love with him.
oh to ponder over the history of romance by observing her wrinkles.
Who were her parents and how young when they left to rest with the higher one.
sacred beliefs. shared from you to me to him.
her mother.
I imagine: dark. a ruby hued undertone. as this woman's here.
and this lady. left to tell. must be of 50 or 60 years.
I only want to sketch through words.
I'd paint her.
I'd stare straight into her soul if I could.
were you raped? stabbed?
crying hysterically as he passed?
and how? how can this be dealt with.
how does one cope with such deep pain... pain building for centuries.
"I'm old, weak."
my dear, you are STRONG.
you have walked the dirt roads wearing down your soles.
until stained with hours of toil before golden sun burning and darkening evermore.
Teal cement. Red trimmed and painting walls. Broken up by history. Cracking still.
and this may be all.
but inspired yet again by a broken soul near.

Painted Maiden

organic.
figural canvas.
her body a terrace painting of green hues.
fabric around curving flesh, a bending stream.
stilled chest as rolling hills
grass sways with breeze, leaves rustling.
and the spotted white
as daisies amidst vibrant fields
But white as my own palm
contrasted to her darkened beauty
cafe color. rich flavor.
hands chocolate paint.
charcoal of deep mahogany and burnt cherry wood.
eyes as candles flickering in black.
lips only higher. loose pastel contours.
gentle peaks.
resting above painted fabric.
above white splashes interspersed
bristles of this brush moving fearlessly dressing surface once blank.
now a painted maiden.

to love is duty

pink floral doodles
circling and spiraling
always hated the femininity of pink.
now a strange fondness for it.
but these pink sheets
a light rose hue after rain drops settle
folding in and out
my gaze following and contouring the lines
my body warmed by its layers.
and this fabric sits on a cot
and this cot rests in a room
this room with 3 sleeping ladies near
and this all amidst a city titled Gitarama
where 7 days of research wait to occur.

try to rest.
try to sleep.
try to bury my head within my pillow made of a red blanket.
but
a moment in my mind:
thoughts of two coffee bars.
the aromas and essences still dancing near
must close the eyes. but rather vibrantly awake.
and then i write within the blue journal.
wish it weren't blue. i like red.
at least the pages are white. no lines. nothing limiting.
scribbling rapidly
emptying the crowds that blur
open a book.
Kierkegaard: WORKS OF LOVE
he says "to love is duty."
dwell in this moment.
to love is duty
love.
duty.
and if love is thought of as duty, jealousy is gone, fear is gone, false persona: gone.
this is really all.
only moments ago i sat my head on a red blanket.
attempting to venture into a night of imagination
a night of vivid dreams.
only now i sit wide awake pondering the philosopher's words.
fearing the seven oclock alarm.
and awaiting morning tea.
so what is duty?
to love.
where does this duty exist?
within proximity i suppose
pink floral doodles and Kierkegaard.
and to love is duty

burnt orange walls and splashes on canvas

coffee aroma in a little bar below the street
burnt orange walls.
paintings with vivid splashes.
a journal on the fabric to my right.
a book on social comparison near.
and irish born to my left.
elizabeth along side.
and conversation
cultures all connected
sitting in idealism, dreaming together.
and of course the taste of roasted coffee beans and bisquits.

a nice saturday.