Lightly

Lucent flecks splay, glint, and wend
Upon my cheek, his warm curls

Brushed lightly of dark earth

Shake, the spoken of the ear relents

He perspires of me, this acted truth,

This gentle sooth, of him, in me.

Each stroke clear, each pulse innate

Minds, breaths, marrow - alive, in flight

Lashed sage, ardent gaze fell deep, 

Through wanting, forming more

Moons rose and dove coolly, knowing

A tender stroke of when.

Ever crescent, bow and bend

Beyond its grasp and cinder's end

Time nimble, no mend, no how

Touch lightly of sweet intent

These opened eyes feel, free palms awake

Unbound, sans cusp or break

Moving infinite within,
Golden gaze, lightly makes, my love.

to remember new.

awoken to marvel by fervid caress of light--such effortless fire, that licks of napes and crooks. why to spoon, for he of hubris spine, needles her bends. we... little, lithe creatures, wakeful and trembling, trust only by need; know not of time and ever desirous of drink. but just one lurid drip remains. it curves and arcs--soaks in before the fall. // sing, sing, oh sing to me, rattle these walls of naught.

the future fantastical possibly maybe.

"Night Thoughts"

Stars, you are unfortunate, I pity you,
Beautiful as you are, shining in your glory,
Who guide seafaring men through stress and peril
And have no recompense from gods or mortals,
Love you do not, nor do you know what love is.
Hours that are aeons urgently conducting
Your figures in a dance through the vast heaven,
What journey have you ended in this moment,
Since lingering in the arms of my beloved
I lost all memory of you and midnight.


-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

What were you dreaming about?

I meet you. I remember you.
Who are you?
You're destroying me. You're good for me.
How could I know this city was tailor-made for love?
How could I know you fit my body like a glove?
I like you.
How unlikely.
I like you.
How slow all of a sudden.
How sweet.
You cannot know.
You're destroying me. You're good for me.
You're destroying me. You're good for me.
I have time.
Please, devour me.
Deform me to the point of ugliness.
Why not you?
Why not in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference?
I beg of you.

-Hiroshima Mon Amour

carte blanche.

in the land of crosses, the treasure remains. 
thine eyes shyly
peering over the edge, looking upon the page-
       --stained with false icons;
               a misprint of time.
just some free-spoken letters in a row
good_but not enough to 
                    resist this 
          /humbled/fumbled/ unprovable leap of (dis)belief
                   churning what's actual to
                   quell our shine and 
                   release my hand, for thy desires turn 
                              these fickle sails 
                                       that guide the way.

(un)familiar light

After 36+ hours of being awake and an array of experiences, I found myself, once again, driving over the First Street Bridge in LA... but this time at a moment where the usually busy streets were mostly quiet and the sun was just beginning to tint the morning horizon.
Compelled to capture this instance of flux that seemed to mirror my thoughts (as if the universe just knew), I parked my car and walked back to the bridge and watched as a familiar light rose to reveal a world I'd never seen before.

(un)familiar light, originally uploaded by RBRamage.

Making Lines

Making Lines from Rebecca Ramage on Vimeo.

This was a project I did for class, featuring the work and insight of my talented friend, Christian Ramirez.

Click Here to be dazzled by more of Christian's work!

A review of Making Lines:

"Having known Christian for over a decade, this, without a doubt, has managed to capture his essence... in a mere six minutes.

Christian has never been interested in displaying what's beautiful, hip, or flattering. He has always striven, with rigor and without pretense, for truth. Truth in the simple line, and the brevity of our presence."

je me rappelle.

oh, to know that
vibrant glow,
bath of blue and
to feel
crooked
loud
warm
intense and wanted.
all the while, operator:
this on//off machine
stuck
on loop,
one
heart
one
last drag
things move faster,
windows down, through our curves and twists, volume up
carefully, concisely, matter of fact-ly
lust.

In each moment.

Harriet Phyllis Burke, my grandma.

Such a bright, brave heart; always with me, she goes.

|ˌpa θ əˈjenəsis|

             all the blurring lights
and streaming rays of smearing color, 
resemble the inhale - exhale, loop by loop, ascending.. 
just to repeat.
    this pause in the silent flurry -- 
those creaky automatic doors, mechanics rasping, jar open,
 and the stranger asks if i'm alright. 

                 had thine eyes been warning me? 
          // hesitate   hes\i/tate \\

      before the beat... before the green.. 
             and the pace is set again, 
structures and people, time and effort
                                in slashes of motion// 
a blink to eclipse my naiveté ::: 
::: for those quickening footsteps can't be my own?
                                           slow to listen
                    all is silent darkness. 
     where is up? 
   no time to choose.
the murky sky sighs to remind me 
that stars exist outside of your eyes..
.. and this fog moves in, 
like a spiny sea urchin through the enclaves of my senses,
      creeping...       c r e e p i n g .... 
                                         tell me, will it 
                                                    stop?

Seep.

exaggerated movements
propel me     your latin tongue 
 pierce   the rising light
stutters and                   collapse. 
these cursed onyx wheels
   working,   grinding.
reality: muted
  c h a s i n g 
her sticky beads of hope 
g
 l
  i
   m      
    m
     e     
      r     
       i    d 
        n    o
         g    w
               n 
                  without hesitation, 
    glass faces
with no consideration
 u n s e a me d.
limbs wrapped in woven mesh, jaded and bemused, pulse
twined
by inner-demonstration
impermissible ex silentio.
a wan resemblance 
   this comfort of memory.

Set alight.

This year, especially the last few months, has been filled with so many awesome shows. Notable shows were Radiohead and Liars, Beck-Spoon-MGMT, Hot Chip (twice, no less), Rock The Bells: A Tribe Called Quest, The Pharcyde (reunited at last), De La Soul, Rakim, Redman & Method Man, special guests, The Black Eyed Peas (sans Fergie! who did a full set from "Bridging The Gap"!), Brian Wilson (of The Beach Boys) playing with the LA Philharmonic Orchestra, Digable Planets and Pigeon John, a farewell show to 8-bit, and Midway ♥....
So many moments I hope I keep with me.

An artist I particularly like, Sadi Güran, did this rad drawing of Samuel Beam of Iron & Wine, which inspired me to blog about the show.




Saturday night I went to the Greek Theatre to see Iron & Wine and The Swell Season. Actually, it was my mom's Mother's Day present, for she is a big Glen Hansard fan. It was simply a beautiful show and actually enjoyed going much more than I thought I would. Glen played a good mix of songs from his solo stuff, The Frames, from Once, and of course The Swell Season. Markéta Irglová was polite, and possibly even timid, but her voice filled the outdoor theater with power beyond her frame. Some highlights of the night inlcude: Glen playing the song "Say It To Me Now" unplugged. Markéta singing the entire song, The Hill. Sam Beam joining them on stage for Neil Young's cover of "Out on the Weekend." The Swell Season's violinist, Colm Mac Con Iomaire, doing an amazing looped solo. (Colm has his own project called The Hare's Corner. www.theharescorner.com) Glen introducing each song with personal stories and tidbits of his life. One story involved a certain Robert Sherman, famed for writing songs for Mary Poppins and The Jungle Book. To the delight of my former third-grade-vocabulary-nerd self, Robert Sherman actually came out on stage and performed, "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious"!

It had rained all Saturday, so the air felt moist and clean. Yet, by the nature of L.A., it still wasn't cold, even at night in an outside venue. The trees that encompass the arena were lit with green and orange, emulating a place where the Fall equinox creates a change of seasons. Along with the company, it was a night of perfect harmony.

"People Get Ready" closed the show....

"We have all the time in the world
To get it right, to get it right
And we have all the love in the world
To set alight, to set alight......"

bonne nuit.

where are your gentle eyes...
that grinned at me,
through the smoke of my failed french inhale...
where are your eyes, what do they see?

The Ephemeral Cotyledon.

She crushed the leaves in the palm of her hand and smelled their dark aroma. The wind swirled around her and picked up the broken pieces which were carried off into the distance. She followed the fragments as long as she could, but soon they were lost amongst the elaborate details of nature.
Her eyes traced the grassy fields that stretched beyond view and gazed in wonder as the warmth of the magic hour danced resplendently along the bellies of the clouds. Slowly, but immeasurably, the milieu was draped in shadows, but the reflection of the sun was effulgent in her eyes.
As she walked the dips of the verdure, rose the scent of moist earth and intoxicating green, titillating her memories. She became conscious of her breathing, which deepened by dint of indulgent reminiscence that cloyed her senses. She was headed to the distant edge of the field where the hillside dropped away to a vast drink. With each step, the moist blades slashed her now viridescent hem, leaving a testimony of her sojourn. Later, when she would question her situation, the mordant chroma would remind her of how she got there. She would remember the choices, both random and naïvely chosen, and know how she had arrived.
When she neared her destination, the increasingly salted winds washed over her cheeks. She inhaled a hastened drag and the briny air piquantly pricked her tongue. Her conscious hand flitted to her mouth and slowly slid down her neck, over her whirring chest, and down deep into her pocket. Cold. Her fingers clutched memories, now cold and dormant.
She could no longer be surreptitious, even if she wanted to be, for the sagacious sea knew all her secrets. She withheld nothing. The whir peaked. With a roar, all her fears and losses and desires jettisoned over the cliff, and the sea crashed back in response. The waves greedily lapping up the fervent effusion, showed no empathy. This was her very being now, the matter of her existence.

So allowed to fertilize, a bud had grown.
The drum began a slow, steady beat. The locket descended; blue.
The pulsing luster in her chest charted a map to the constellations.


In the dark, is how she was made.

Huit Pierres Dans Sa Poche.

De façon les humains sont capables de mesurer et de déterminer un abstrait par un autre abstrait et de le déduire vers le bas à un cliché dépensable. Parfois l'amour n'est pas assez, même amour vrai. La distance fait seulement le coeur oublier. Le temps n'attend personne. Par conséquent, vous pouvez être trop en retard. Des scientifiques sont satisfaits comme temps étant un dispositif opérationnel en lequel l'unité définissante est la seconde. La seconde est souvent attachée par rapport au battement d'un coeur. Les battements de coeur sont-ils équivalents aux secondes ? Par le jugement de Kant, on pourrait jamais être trop tardif, parce que le temps n'existe pas. Cependant, à plusieurs reprises, << trop tard >>, est la platitude respirée outre des lèvres d'un amoureux à l'autre. Comment peut-il être trop tard, quand les humains à l'intérieur posess le gardien de temps du monde scientifique ?... battant le rythme à l'âme de l'existence, infestée par l'habitude du lapin blanc. Un abstrait peut échouer un autre abstrait...mais quoique mon amour soit vrai, le temps continue à passer.

A marked note.

A letter mailed from Palatine, Illinois remained positioned on my dresser for many months. Though I tried not to consciously delve into the significance of the action, I placed it purposely within eyesight of my usual sitting spot. Each time I looked up, I would clearly discern in my peripheral, its precise white-with-a-tinge-of-smoke outline. Most often, I would keep its recognition in the posterior of my mind. Yet, there were several days where I completely thwarted such cautious efforts. Audaciously, I would pick up the envelope, reread the names on the addresses and reregister the postmark in my encephalon's timetable. I would run my fingers over the page encased inside, and feel the slight indentations the pen had made onto the precious solo sheet. I would replace the letter to its position and continue to be both grateful and perplexed at its presence.

Today, a different liturgy ensued.

From my sitting spot, I looked at the envelope and reflected back to the day I recieved it. I remember reading it and laughing as I walked back inside from my mailbox. Today, when I read the note, it just as easily elicited a smile. Instead of placing it back to its post, I put it in my filecabinet in a folder specifically marked "Grandpa & Grandma." I lightly pushed the drawer and the sliding tracks continued to close the drawer all the way.

I paused, and consciously grasped the significance of this action.


Je t'aime, Pépère.