We didn't come here to fit in.
We came here to be who we are.
We didn't come here to work.
We came here to live our dreams.
We didn't come here for the stuff.
We came here to love each other.
We didn't come here by accident.
We each came here with a purpose that is uniquely our own.
Be
Dream
Love
Thrive
Always (semper)!
This is the motto I forgot. I used to sleep on the street for art. In the hopes of being inspired beyond my birth. Now, I sell my soul for a bi-weekly paycheck that covers the comforts, but doesn't touch what is important. Doesn't touch my heart, my soul, my passion. My dreams, they are not for sale. But I in the end they are already sold. When and where is the salvation to break this hold? Jesus is dead, Vishnu is blue so where does that leave me and you?
How to a save the original soul that came to this city? Wide eyed, pure and optimistic even in this political climate. Where did she go? My matinee girl that thought love and fortune lived beyond the next turn of fate's dice. I miss her. I know she's there, but just trapped under something. Something heavy and full of owe. I long to release her, to tell her that her true heart roams free that it should find all it can before the 9 to 5 beats the joy out of her.
Tell me, do you see her? Maybe she passes you on the street full of life and relentless love for what the next day might bring. If you see her, tell her that I miss her and long for her touch. I might wax dramatic but this is life we are talking about and what is more dramatic than the 8 million heart beats that pump in and out of the this city day in and day out? If only the MTA could charge for what comes naturally then we wouldn't worry about the next hike. Our souls would bare the brunt of politics and maybe we'd steal an uptown ride within the 2 hour limit.
What light through yonder window breaks? It is my heart and is there no repose for a wounded soul such as I? Billy didn't plan for me...but just wait. My soul has just begone to cry out and in the end, well if the gods smile I'll be spinning that Tony, wicked, wicked approval. The greatest writers write without regard to approval. Approval is death and my soul will not die at the hands of it. So wait, listen and long for what comes next...it might just change the world.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
My 2 Cents...
I just went through my penny drawer and I have decided that I love them....flipping through the dates is like a tiny time machine and my mind tries to think of all the places these little guys have been...I just get all I don't know wide eyed to think of what their "lifespan" is like...
To try and capture it on film would be a documentary endeavor beyond my scope, so I might have to just imagine a fictitious journey and try to get it down on paper. This week I found some gems. A 1944 copper head with an alternate back that says One Cent, a 1959 and some from the 70’s that remind me of being a kid, a few 80’s but not many, probably because Reagan couldn’t be bothered to print the poor little bastards, and then pristine copper ones from the late 90’s into the 00’s.
However, it’s the ’44 and ’59 that really spark my imagination. They’ve been around longer than my parents were, they will probably be in pockets long after I’m gone and no one will ever be able to even fathom the distances they’ve travels or articles they’ve purchased. Were they someone’s lucky penny? Did they live for a decade in a loafer? Spend time in a bubble gum machine? Kept someone from going hungry? Probably all of the above and then some.
Flat Abe is regal and yet so tiny. His profile doesn’t change not even if the coin is well worn. He’s timeless and calm at his seat always looking to the right as if he’s trying to see if the train is coming. Sometimes when I see him lying in the street I leave him there, hoping that some child might be overjoyed to find him. Day dreaming of Abe’s unfolding adventure gives me more delicious respite then if I tossed him up into my change valet. Sure he would have a grand time visiting with old friends but I usually just simply nod and pay my respects and wish him a safe journey, but that’s only if he’s face up.
To Be Continued....
To try and capture it on film would be a documentary endeavor beyond my scope, so I might have to just imagine a fictitious journey and try to get it down on paper. This week I found some gems. A 1944 copper head with an alternate back that says One Cent, a 1959 and some from the 70’s that remind me of being a kid, a few 80’s but not many, probably because Reagan couldn’t be bothered to print the poor little bastards, and then pristine copper ones from the late 90’s into the 00’s.
However, it’s the ’44 and ’59 that really spark my imagination. They’ve been around longer than my parents were, they will probably be in pockets long after I’m gone and no one will ever be able to even fathom the distances they’ve travels or articles they’ve purchased. Were they someone’s lucky penny? Did they live for a decade in a loafer? Spend time in a bubble gum machine? Kept someone from going hungry? Probably all of the above and then some.
Flat Abe is regal and yet so tiny. His profile doesn’t change not even if the coin is well worn. He’s timeless and calm at his seat always looking to the right as if he’s trying to see if the train is coming. Sometimes when I see him lying in the street I leave him there, hoping that some child might be overjoyed to find him. Day dreaming of Abe’s unfolding adventure gives me more delicious respite then if I tossed him up into my change valet. Sure he would have a grand time visiting with old friends but I usually just simply nod and pay my respects and wish him a safe journey, but that’s only if he’s face up.
To Be Continued....
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
My Golden Girl
My mother would have been 68 today.
She would have just been hitting her prime as a sassy senior with all the strut and promise of a woman who’s lived a life full of family, laughter and love.
Both of us were born on Friday the 13th something that might seem to be unlucky to most, but not us. We always thought of it as a reminder that we were special. Nobody lifts an eyebrow if you were born on the 3rd, 18th or 23rd. But tell them you were born on the 13th and you always get a hair-raising reaction.
If I try to sum my mother up into one thing it would be impossible. She was so many things to so many different people. She made an impact wherever she went and with whomever she came in contact. The “IT” Factor can totally be applied to her, people were drawn to her, they respected and admired who she was and not just because she threw one hell of a party. She was the party.
I can remember as a little girl watching the parties my parents threw, my sister and I would sneak down the hall in our footy pj’s to peer around the corner into the grand room. Dad would be at the piano playing some swing tune that made everyone dance like no one was watching. Mom would be whirling around making sure everyone had what they needed, the laughter and the smiling faces of friends and neighbors are still as clear today in my mind as they were then. Or if my parents went out on the town, again my sister and I would be spellbound while watching Mom put on her make up and her fancy dress. Shalimar and Old Spice bring me right back to those moments.
She loved pecan ice cream and chocolate turtles. Old movies and popcorn made on the stove. She loved to dance and even won a swing contest or two with my father. Dancing with her in the kitchen between unending rounds of holiday baking used to make us laugh so hard my sister and I’d fall to the floor.
Her most treasured possessions, other than her family, were the pictures she took. She used to tell me if the house ever caught fire to grab the albums and run. She was meticulous is printing on the back when, where and who was in each shot. I guess she thought she would be spending hours pouring over the past and reliving those Kodak moments. Now they serve as the only way back for me to remember the family that seems all too distant.
My sense of humor is a mix of my mother’s and father’s both cards in their own right, but in very different ways. Dad was silly and goofy, slap sticky with a smidge of stooges, and mother was the best of what dry; witty, smart, perfectly timed English humor is at its finest. She loved to read, and when I say read I mean everything, she read books like I eat potato chips. As a young woman she wanted to go to college and be a chemist, but forgo it so her brothers could go because they would have to support families. Truly a waste since they never finished.
We planed to write children’s books together after I graduated from college and even finished one that I used in a creative writing class. Unfortunately she got sick the summer before my senior year and that dream got shelved. We all traveled that last year together, after I graduated, doing and seeing as much as we could. Packing in all the life as a family before we knew it would all disappear.
I try to think about what life would be like if she was still here. How different I might be or if I would have made other choices due to her influence? Where and who would I be if things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong? She was my best friend; the one person I know loved me just for me. Even with all my flaws and insecurities she never made me feel like I didn’t matter. Her pet names for me were, Missy or Princess, to unlikely words to describe the Brandy of today.
Being from the south nobody really went by their given names. My father went by Doc, my mother was Rea or Aunt Rea, my sister until puberty was Scooter, and I forever and always will be Brandy. None of which appear on our birth certificates. My parents even had nicknames for each other, Pooh Bear and Boo Boo Bear…which naturally just became Pooh & Boo. I think that’s why people with out nicknames worry me. It’s almost like nobody cared about them enough to make them their own, to put a stamp of affection on your relationship is to me the highest form of flattery.
November 13th, 1939 (The year both Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz premiered) my mother Mariea Gladys LaCone Rowell pushed her way into the world. I miss her everyday, and on this day especially, so I try and do something we would have done together. After work I am going to see a show, she’s the one that introduced me to the theatre and supported my every endeavor in my pursuit of finding my light. My only regret is that she never got to see me perform.
Well, that’s not true, she saw me entertain at the dinner table, and when we where out with friends. But that’s not the same as standing alone on stage at Caroline’s in front of a packed house. She probably would have been so nervous for me that she wouldn’t have been able to watch. Wringing her hands until that first wave of laughter burst forth; yeah I would have liked her to have seen me shake my jelly.
She would be so proud of all the fears I’ve conquered, but frankly there are many more and while I know she’s watching out for me, I wish she was here. I wish I could remember her voice. I wish she could meet all the wonderful people I have in my life who are my family now. She was the greatest birthday present I ever got and I’d trade anything to hear her call me Missy just one more time, I love you Mom, Happy Birthday!
She would have just been hitting her prime as a sassy senior with all the strut and promise of a woman who’s lived a life full of family, laughter and love.
Both of us were born on Friday the 13th something that might seem to be unlucky to most, but not us. We always thought of it as a reminder that we were special. Nobody lifts an eyebrow if you were born on the 3rd, 18th or 23rd. But tell them you were born on the 13th and you always get a hair-raising reaction.
If I try to sum my mother up into one thing it would be impossible. She was so many things to so many different people. She made an impact wherever she went and with whomever she came in contact. The “IT” Factor can totally be applied to her, people were drawn to her, they respected and admired who she was and not just because she threw one hell of a party. She was the party.
I can remember as a little girl watching the parties my parents threw, my sister and I would sneak down the hall in our footy pj’s to peer around the corner into the grand room. Dad would be at the piano playing some swing tune that made everyone dance like no one was watching. Mom would be whirling around making sure everyone had what they needed, the laughter and the smiling faces of friends and neighbors are still as clear today in my mind as they were then. Or if my parents went out on the town, again my sister and I would be spellbound while watching Mom put on her make up and her fancy dress. Shalimar and Old Spice bring me right back to those moments.
She loved pecan ice cream and chocolate turtles. Old movies and popcorn made on the stove. She loved to dance and even won a swing contest or two with my father. Dancing with her in the kitchen between unending rounds of holiday baking used to make us laugh so hard my sister and I’d fall to the floor.
Her most treasured possessions, other than her family, were the pictures she took. She used to tell me if the house ever caught fire to grab the albums and run. She was meticulous is printing on the back when, where and who was in each shot. I guess she thought she would be spending hours pouring over the past and reliving those Kodak moments. Now they serve as the only way back for me to remember the family that seems all too distant.
My sense of humor is a mix of my mother’s and father’s both cards in their own right, but in very different ways. Dad was silly and goofy, slap sticky with a smidge of stooges, and mother was the best of what dry; witty, smart, perfectly timed English humor is at its finest. She loved to read, and when I say read I mean everything, she read books like I eat potato chips. As a young woman she wanted to go to college and be a chemist, but forgo it so her brothers could go because they would have to support families. Truly a waste since they never finished.
We planed to write children’s books together after I graduated from college and even finished one that I used in a creative writing class. Unfortunately she got sick the summer before my senior year and that dream got shelved. We all traveled that last year together, after I graduated, doing and seeing as much as we could. Packing in all the life as a family before we knew it would all disappear.
I try to think about what life would be like if she was still here. How different I might be or if I would have made other choices due to her influence? Where and who would I be if things hadn’t gone so terribly wrong? She was my best friend; the one person I know loved me just for me. Even with all my flaws and insecurities she never made me feel like I didn’t matter. Her pet names for me were, Missy or Princess, to unlikely words to describe the Brandy of today.
Being from the south nobody really went by their given names. My father went by Doc, my mother was Rea or Aunt Rea, my sister until puberty was Scooter, and I forever and always will be Brandy. None of which appear on our birth certificates. My parents even had nicknames for each other, Pooh Bear and Boo Boo Bear…which naturally just became Pooh & Boo. I think that’s why people with out nicknames worry me. It’s almost like nobody cared about them enough to make them their own, to put a stamp of affection on your relationship is to me the highest form of flattery.
November 13th, 1939 (The year both Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz premiered) my mother Mariea Gladys LaCone Rowell pushed her way into the world. I miss her everyday, and on this day especially, so I try and do something we would have done together. After work I am going to see a show, she’s the one that introduced me to the theatre and supported my every endeavor in my pursuit of finding my light. My only regret is that she never got to see me perform.
Well, that’s not true, she saw me entertain at the dinner table, and when we where out with friends. But that’s not the same as standing alone on stage at Caroline’s in front of a packed house. She probably would have been so nervous for me that she wouldn’t have been able to watch. Wringing her hands until that first wave of laughter burst forth; yeah I would have liked her to have seen me shake my jelly.
She would be so proud of all the fears I’ve conquered, but frankly there are many more and while I know she’s watching out for me, I wish she was here. I wish I could remember her voice. I wish she could meet all the wonderful people I have in my life who are my family now. She was the greatest birthday present I ever got and I’d trade anything to hear her call me Missy just one more time, I love you Mom, Happy Birthday!
Thursday, November 1, 2007
When your friends start turning 40….don’t panic!
Recently I have had some dear friends turn 40. Realizing not unlike Sally Albright (aka Meg Ryan) that I will too turn forty, “someday”! However, to me it doesn’t seem like the big dead end that caused said starlet to shed tears in 1989. I myself have turn 25 & 30 more times than most, but age is not what it used to be.
My southern roots oblige me never to reveal my true age because that would not be lady like, and frankly when you’re in show business such a revelation can be a speed bump in the ever growing youth culture market. Youth obsession is getting well…old.
I watch young people on my way to work; they are like aliens that when grouped in packs speak a language that I can barely decipher. They are shortening the English language into what is almost comparable to that African Clicking sound. Totally has become Totes, Whatever has become Whatev, things are getting so fast that they barely have time to articulate. Unfortunately, like is still alive and well and will probably be the only word they don’t deteriorate. My point is this there is no value in being young, other than being young. My mother used to say you are as old as you feel, and frankly I look at the wide spectrum of my friends whose ages range from 22 to 60 and on the average I’m thinking I will hang at 32 for awhile.
Last night I was out for Halloween, I was dressed as the Fuzzy Crippled Pumpkin Girl Avenger of all Squash! I was accompanied by Hot Slut Harmionie, a Flapper, Saucy Pirate Queen, Popeye & a Pretty Kitty. Clearly friends from the 20something range…Pretty Kitty looked at me and asked how old I was, I told her, she was “Like” no way! I thought you were 24 maybe 25!!!
I am a burning vision of timeless youth. An eternal Pan sans flute.
Ponce del Eon thought it came in a fountain when really it just comes from within, silly Spaniard. As time marches on I continue to hold my own with people who are a decade younger than me...so you see, I am not getting any older anytime soon, time is my bitch and I will have my way with her. I suggest you do the same.
My southern roots oblige me never to reveal my true age because that would not be lady like, and frankly when you’re in show business such a revelation can be a speed bump in the ever growing youth culture market. Youth obsession is getting well…old.
I watch young people on my way to work; they are like aliens that when grouped in packs speak a language that I can barely decipher. They are shortening the English language into what is almost comparable to that African Clicking sound. Totally has become Totes, Whatever has become Whatev, things are getting so fast that they barely have time to articulate. Unfortunately, like is still alive and well and will probably be the only word they don’t deteriorate. My point is this there is no value in being young, other than being young. My mother used to say you are as old as you feel, and frankly I look at the wide spectrum of my friends whose ages range from 22 to 60 and on the average I’m thinking I will hang at 32 for awhile.
Last night I was out for Halloween, I was dressed as the Fuzzy Crippled Pumpkin Girl Avenger of all Squash! I was accompanied by Hot Slut Harmionie, a Flapper, Saucy Pirate Queen, Popeye & a Pretty Kitty. Clearly friends from the 20something range…Pretty Kitty looked at me and asked how old I was, I told her, she was “Like” no way! I thought you were 24 maybe 25!!!
I am a burning vision of timeless youth. An eternal Pan sans flute.
Ponce del Eon thought it came in a fountain when really it just comes from within, silly Spaniard. As time marches on I continue to hold my own with people who are a decade younger than me...so you see, I am not getting any older anytime soon, time is my bitch and I will have my way with her. I suggest you do the same.
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