Video of the Day

More apt than I can say right now.

In The Age

Sometimes I wish I had been born in the age of the great artists and poets. It seems that there was a time when creativity flowed much more freely than it does now. Men sculpted and painted, wrote sonnets and built cathedrals.  In many ways, the amount of beauty in men's creations seems diminished. Things have been reduced to various layers of binary code and javascript.  My mother told me the other day that they've stopped teaching cursive writing in schools. Another thing of beauty discarded. We're slowly losing the art in things.

I went to the Smithsonian's West Gallery yesterday, hiding where the sculptures are because the tourists tend to shy away from them. Everyone wants to see pretty acrylics spread across canvas, but figures in bronze and marble they can usually do without. I like them though. They're silently beautiful, and in the quiet of the galleries, they play their own kind of music. I saw a piece by Auguste Rodin called "Evil Spirits:" a white marble statue of a seated woman, bent over with her elbows on her knees. Two human-like figures clung to either side of her. None of them showed their faces, but one had the woman's hair wrapped around its head in a shackle made of tresses. It hit a bit close to home. In the age of great artists and poets, they were able to mold predicaments of the soul into shapes of marble and onto stretches of linen. If only we still did.

What the heck am I doing here?

I have come to Sidamo, my favorite coffee house on the Hill; usually an oasis of calm at which I can tend to be fairly productive. Yet I walk in on this rather ordinary Monday, and it is packed with people. There are four new mothers surrounding the coffee roaster lovingly rubbing their infants' backs like beatific madonnas. Every now and then, one of them emits a grating scream. One of the infants, not one of the mothers. There are people standing around waiting on their lunch orders, and for a minute, one girl's purse is practically in what I'm guessing is my iced vanilla latte. I ordered my usual iced vanilla coffee but was given this already milky, slightly bubbly concoction, that, although delicious, isn't quite what I had in mind. I have yet to dive in to my white paper bag for my croissant (I ordered it for here), and I'm really hoping it has the bacon and cheese that I requested.

After lucking out yesterday, catching every yellow light between Lincoln Park and Union Station and snagging a pretty sweet parking spot just down on 2nd Street, jumping the metro train 2.5 seconds before it closed its doors, making it to Chinatown with T minus 20 minutes before show time to jump across the street to California Tortilla, grab a burrito, make it back across to the theatre to buy my ticket, pick out seats, run back and stand in the concession line to pick up my free small Cherry Coke, and STILL make it back in time for the previews, today has been a bit disappointing already. And it's barely past noon. I woke up in a funk, which is never good, because there isn't much other place for the day to go. As opposed to making me hopeful for the future, watching Eat Pray Love last night left me with a decidedly unsettled feeling in my stomach. Afterwards, my two friends happily reminisced about all of their travels and suggested possibly renting a group villa in Italy, etc. etc. I remained silent. I felt a panic that has carried over into this new day, and I fear I'm about to start once again making decisions out of desperation. I'm going to cheat on DC again and soon. I can feel it.

Velvet Nights

My now good friend, JJ Lefors (sunshine in human form), and I took a stroll last night to the Washington Monument. We parked her little on-loan blue Yaris on Madison or Jefferson or Abraham or some other presidentially named street running the length of the Mall. We had pulled up with the radio blaring and startled an old Indian man and his wife sitting on a park bench; who, rather than making out, which would have been somewhat gross but would also have had a cuteness factor, were instead sitting facing two different directions, not even touching, which couldn't have been good for their relationship. Immediately upon disembarkation, we heard the lilting old timey strains of "It Had to Be You" drifting out from the loud speakers at the American History museum. I stopped dead still in the middle of the street. The doors had long since been locked, and the inside swam in darkness, but outside, over concrete still very warm from the day's intense rays and humidity, played this classic forties' tune that immediately had me wishing for a USO ball and sleek hair rolls. I had no other choice but to slip off my flip flops and dance. No one was around, and I don't think I would have cared much if they were. The Indian man was still draped over the back of the bench, looking in our direction and must have thought it strange that I was jumping up on the border walls, step-touching the length of them in time to the music.

It's moments like these when I fall in love with this city again. DC and I are very tenuous lovers. I get dissatisfied and am frequently unfaithful, flitting off to try out other places, sights and sounds, but in return, DC retorts that it never made me any promises. Eventually, it comes around and woos me again, making me want to stay just a little bit longer. I can't make a commitment, but it's fun for now, and as long as it keeps up the surprises and spontaneity, I think I can linger and see if we can't work out our issues. Don't worry baby, I say. I'll still get dressed up for you, kick off my heels and walk barefoot on your streets. I may leave again soon, but you're still the one I come back to for now. That will have to be enough. Just don't forget to keep bringing me flowers and evenings of velvet.