Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Homecoming
The mountains looked dry, even the crop circles were brown. Surely it hasn't been this hot in these parts. We were above North Montana, twenty minutes away from our descent. As the plane began to push past the sky lines, the landscape began to change.
Fog thinned out into kale-green, reaching pine trees, as abundant and spread out as the towns that now came into sight. The sky was spotless blue, reaching far beyond the Sound. Never in my four years had I seen Seattle so clear, so fresh, so much like home.
We had dinner to celebrate Mummy A's birthday. I'm going out with C today, and B comes home tonight. I'm so excited I don't care if the only coffee I can get in town might be mermaid girl's.All Writing and Images © Celine Asril
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The New Porker
I lived in a beautiful apartment in beautiful West Village. I ate. I supped in the East, brunched in FiDi, picnicked in Central Park and had late night grub in Koreatown. I ate. I hung out in the Upper West, and shopped on Fifth, in Soho and in fleas as close as Chelsea and as 'far' as Brooklyn. I ate. I weekended upstate in the Catskills and took the Chinatown bus to Washington, DC. I ate. I rode the subway, sometimes on the Express without realising - I blame it on the underground sunglasses. I ate. I hailed a cab or two but mostly walked the town. I ate. I bumped into celebrities on strolls, and knew someones who knew someones. I ate. I attended live music sessions, at the Lincoln, the 'Merc' and in the subways. I ate. I watched outdoor opera. I ate.
For a month, I was a true blue New Porker.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Friday, September 04, 2009
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Dizzy Liberty
The vibraphone shields the view, but only partially. The twinkling windows in the background extend much further than the legs of the instrument, creating a warm, worldly backdrop for the engrossed vibraphonist, Joe Locke. At Dizzy's Club Coca-Cola, he's playing with Trio da Paz and I'm watching him tap the keys with lithe vigor to the tunes of Antonio Carlos Jobim.
I'm in the city that never sleeps, the once-centre of the world, the town of skyscrapers and equally high dreams, of taco stands and hotdog vendors, of bars, restaurants and bistros, of honking yellow cabs and mine-shaft-like subways, of bridges and waters, of song, dance, musicals, commerce, and of jazz. Pure, adulterated, and unadulterated, jazz. I tap away as he does. I follow each and every furrow of his eyebrow, grunt to the beat, progression of the arms.
I'm in New York, at the Lincoln Centre, finally.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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