Photograph by Saana Wang

If the first month of 2012 seemed like one long Monday morning, break your fast in this emerging new year with a quick review of our fresh January menu. If you like to start things with a bit of a surprise, try breakfast in bed with any of our mischievious bloggers–even we don’t know what they are up to until we see it. And if you are up to a Hobbit “second-breakfast” stop into EIL’s ever-expanding Arts Store for rich and delectable items to-go. January brought us reviews of music and movies, essays, poetry and, as always, an array of stunning imagery.

Artist’s Watch: Saana Wang Documenting the fraying edges of the Hujialou district of Beijing, Wang’s work emphasizes mythic and human elements of Wang’s urban interiors. The photographer stages her storied images within a decaying Communist housing block. It is, however, the poignant painted faces of her subjects that take her work into a striking mythic framework, evoking  memory, longing, and grief. The make-up, familiar from traditional Chinese opera, break barriers of expectation and leave the viewer haunted and hungry.

Art History Essay: Painting Russian Royals in the Eighteenth Century Stephen Pain’s vivid examination of Russian portraiture continues EIL’s grand tradition of incisive critical essays. Bringing the reader into the rich and perilous world of aristocratic painters, Pain explores the details of painterly choices, the demands of influential clients, and the cultural and political expectations under which  such portrait artists labored. Don’t miss this essay as food for thought–the croissant of the day.

The Poetry of Scott Poole A servant of dreams and maple bars, Poole’s poetry moves quickly with Calypso rhythms that sing to the reader. An observer both keen and humorous, Poole allows the heart and the eye to equally impart the “heart-knocking” incisions of interior life.

Movie Review: Shame  EIL reviewer Luke Grundy promises a lot of sex in British writer-director Steve McQueen’s new movie Shame. Since the theme of the movie deals with one man’s obsessions it is not surprising that images of desire pervade the film in a manner more observant than voyeuristic. Michael Fassbenderhe playing the protagonist, Brandon Sullivan, depicts a mesmerizing descent into feral promiscuity. In this painterly essay of a film, McQueen returns to explore issues of willpower that he previously explored in his earlier film, Hunger.

Mp3: Never Change by  Julianna Barwick End the January buffet with a EIL bonus treat. Chris Kapolas has found us varied and exciting music over the last months and this vocally layered piece is no exception. Tune in for the download he describes as “like opening your eyes under water.”

Stacy Ericson is an editor, poet, and photographer addicted to imagery both in word and in art.  Her work often reflects her roots in the western states and an abiding interest in other cultures, ancient languages and religions, and other visceral passions. She lives and works in Boise, Idaho. Her poetry, fiction, essays, and photos can be found at the old bouquet , while fine art and portrait work can be seen on her professional website Stacy Ericson Photography.

You Were The One (Who taught me What I Don’t Need), 2012, oil on stretched canvas

I paint.

I paint because I was convinced Bob Ross worked magic as a child. Because my therapist said that it’s a better hobby than jumping off of bridges. Because I love color. Because I feel sexy covered in paint. Because oil paint smells good. Because paint brushes are beautiful. Because I get closer to inner peace with every painting. Because it scares me. Because I can.

Radiance (1 of 4 panels), (2011), oil on hardboard panel

But most of all, I paint because I want to. I paint for me.

I’m not out to change the world. I’m not trying to convince people to believe or change things. I’m not out after some deeper philosophical meaning or to communicate ideals. My work isn’t altruistic or political or religious. It’s small scale, on the level of the individual. When it comes to my painting, I don’t give a damn about your movements, your social justice, or your large scale big picture.

 Raise Your Glass, (2011), oil on unstretched canvas, 22 x 42 in

I paint for selfish reasons.

I paint because I love it. Because it’s easier to address and understand what I’m feeling and dealing with when it’s on canvas in front of me than it is when it’s inside my own head. Because creating something beautiful inspired by pain makes the pain easier to deal with; it makes having to wake up and deal with the pain worthwhile. Because I’d rather create something than wallow or whine. Because it’s more satisfying than cleaning. Because my brain shuts up when I paint. Because my heart is lighter when I work. Because it’s teaching me patience and acceptance and zen and other life lessons I’ve not been able to learn other ways.

 I wish you loved me, (2011), oil on hardboard panel, 24 x 24 in

I paint for me.

I paint, and that is what matters most to me. After the paint is dry, when my work is done? The meaning, the implications, the motives, the effects? That I leave to the critics, collectors and historians. I’m just the painter.

I paint.

Push, (2012), oil on unstretched canvas, 22 x 46 in

Peonies, (2012), oil on hardboard panel

Change Your Mind, (2012), oil on stretched canvas

Secrets, (2012), oil on stretched canvas

Skies I: Wild Clouds, (2011), oils on hardboard panel, 12 x 24 in

Artist Bio

I’m still alive. That’s usually the first thing I want to know when I find a new artist, as most of them tend to be not-so-alive, so that’ll be the first thing I tell you here. Beyond the still alive thing, I was born in 1983, and share a birthday with George Washington. (Yeah, I know – I’m not that old yet. A close friend jokes I’m still a minor.)

I come from a huge family. I have four younger siblings, all talented in their own right, and have two brilliant and talented parents. There are a couple of presidents in my family history, and a famous mathematician, among other very interesting people. Why it took me so long to figure out what I was good at with that kind of background no one knows, but I bounced around for a good long time between the sciences and liberal arts and humanities before I finally decided I was going to stop being afraid of painting and give it a try. Even then, I’m pretty sure there was a span of about 6 months between my first few paintings on canvas paper and when I finally got semi-serious and switched to real canvas. (I still have that painting, my first one on canvas – it’s just this little red ball on a brown and white background. It hangs on the wall next to my desk, with my other favorites.)

I’ve moved around a lot – enough so that when I tell people the number of times I’ve moved, they ask if I’m joking. Nope. My dad just liked to go new places, and then I married a man who joined the military, so I did more moving then. Let me tell you, an international move with three small children is one hell of an adventure. (Infants do not particularly like long international flights, and neither do I, for that matter.)

As far as experience, I’ve played with a bit of everything. I’ve done photography, digital editing, digital art, 3D modeling, digital photography, fiber arts, bit of jewelry as a kid under the supervision of a jeweler, bead weaving, I can spin my own yarn and own what was a functional spinning wheel, until the kids broke part of it.

Currently, I live in southern Florida, often in my tiny screened-in-porch-turned-studio, with one paint-averse husband, three kids who think paint is awesome and one dog that tries to lick the paint off of the canvas.

It’s entertaining, this little circus, if nothing else.

Abigail Markov’s Website

Flaccid  Passion

Springtime

America

Late Summer

Flower  Risk

Concerning The Soul

Wilting  Gossip

The  Lovers

Early  Fall

Deathless  Winter

In this new series of ten works David LaChapelle (b. 1964) explores the vanity of life and beauty. With titles such as “Springtime”, “Late Summer”, “Early Fall” and “Deathless Winter”, the works refer to the four seasons and allude to the life cycle,  from birth to death.

The title of the series Earth Laughs In Flowers is a quotation of the poem Hamatreya by Ralph Waldo Emerson, in which flowers are the earth’s laughter at the arrogance of human beings who believe they can rule the earth, although they themselves are transient and must return to it. The title of the exhibition can also be read in the sense of the Baroque vanitas portrayals. The meaning of the Baroque floral still life was always related to the human hubris and transience of earthly existence, with the classical still life often containing many of the following: flowers, fruits, vegetables, animals, insects, mask, candles, watches or skulls. These symbols denote the fugacity and limitations of human life and the meaningless nature of vanity. Just like wilting flowers, albeit their beauty, we will all fade away.

Whilst LaChapelle shows an explicit compositional affinity to Baroque floral still life, he transfers the genre from painting to photography. The artist employs art historical visual traditions, but he also translates them into visual metaphor of and for our time. On second glance the viewer will discover objects of contemporary society in the blooming and fading flower arrangements: burning cigarettes, newspapers from yesterday, old mobile phones, plastic, Barbies, a Manga mask, medical devices, a burning American flag, a model of an airplane, balloons, tins, collages, throw away dinnerware or a tattered dollar bill. These are the metaphors of vanity in our era of an affluent though seemingly troubled society. The often bizarre and excessive symbolical imagery does not fail to remind us however, as in the traditional vanitas, to follow our virtues and to celebrate life before it‘s over.

Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:

And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.

Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys

Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;

Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet

Clear of the grave.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Hamatreya, 1846

David LaChapelle’s Website

David LaChapelle at ROBILANT + VOENA

David LaChapelle at Fred Torres Collaborations

Katia Chausheva

Dix Mansion
Boston, Massachusetts 1814

Dix Mansion is white sheets and posture
devotions and Grandmother’s matte eyes
picking up the stitch of Grandfather’s soft-
cornered pipe smoke in the library

I am the favored child of the dead physician’s
disrespectful son who married beneath him
who put his hands into the mouth of the Lord
and pulled them out again glazed
as evangelical as touched as Lazarus

I am the unexpected bleeding
stepping off the stagecoach unannounced
in tight shoes and a christening dress

I am the melodrama dripping
in the entrance hall

I am the pigeon come home to roost
the statement the penny edition the very well

D.L.D. in the Role of Miss Dix
in the Role of Governess for the Channing Children

The two youngest children are boys and they clatter
onto the miniature stage. Tin oil lamps cast depth up
onto their faces. Their voices blur like smudged silver:

“One day the princess was bathing at the river.”
Their sister enters wearing Mother’s dressing gown-
The girl has drenched the hem of the gown with wash-water

not knowing the lye would burn her ankles and hands.
The lacework leaves a dark trail over the floorboards
snags. Mother’s clenched jaw shimmers in the spill

of the footlights. “I will raise the child as my own.
I will call him Moses.” The girl gestures to her brothers-
handmaidens who sing, “Moses, son of Bathia!”

The girl lifts the doll to the bud of her breast. Father’s
presence is sticky in the summer parlor. His palms smack
together hard enough to disturb the candle flames. “Bravo!”

Mother needs air. I gather the children in a rushed bow,
whisk them into the wings, wipe cheeks, rinse hands, wrists
ankles and gown. No one will know the lye

burned through the rouge on the porcelain doll
playing the role of the orphan.

D.L.D. Confers with the Alienist

In my visions
I don’t move
to help her

because there’s no sense
in lifting the child
knowing what I know

will happen anyway
when the river is pulled
into the soft vacuum

of her lungs:
My eyes are closed
but I can still see

her fixed pupils
rimmed with the green
slough that clings

to the bank
where cattails
suck from the silt

try to burst into flight
The water still ripples
from her thrashings

Thea, goddess of sight
floats beside me
blindly tapping my thigh

The Self-Mutilator

To view the figure from its most appealing
angle: the bruised fruit of its round shoulder
dark skin sloping upward to the jaw
womanly, the curves of vertebrae
undulating, liquid in half-dark;
its flesh, a gown slipped and falling, caught
and held just above the elbows, shining
like anthracite, dark sleeves lace-like
unraveling from its forearms, a red robe
stripped and swinging stiffly with twined tassels
from hips and buttocks—an image more obscene
than the tintype stashed in father’s steamer trunk
more titillating than the musk deer’s corpse
he once dragged home to flay and mount.

After She Killed Him

Did she place her hands on the soles of his feet
and command, “arise”

Did she stand on the taut grey of his torso
to force the gurgle and whoosh of gases

Did she raise her arms and play king of the mountain
with goats watching from the pen

Did she press her chapped lips against his white forehead
and pray to be an angel with wings

so many wings they would sprout from her ears
and eyes and armpits

she would be God’s shuttlecock
and her brother would lob her over the net

and God would lob her back all fuzzy and ticklish
and they would all laugh

Did they have to peel her brother’s corpse from her
lure her rattling shackles like tambourines

Did they lock her in the barn
to rub against the masonry pillars

Ren (Katherine) Powell is a native Californian living on the west coast of Norway. She is a poet, playwright, translator, and educator. Her best and worst attribute is her periodical monomania–currently expressing itself through a bookbinder apprenticeship with a master artisan. Her book Mercy Island was published by Phoenicia Publishing of Montreal. An Elastic State of Mind: D.L.D.’s Autobiography in Poems is forthcoming in Norway in 2012, and will be her fourth bilingual collection published by Wigestrand forlag.

Dorothea Lynde Dix preferred to call herself D.L.D. Born in 1802, she achieved an international celebrity status by the time she was fifty. A successful writer, prison reformer and champion for the mentally ill, during the Civil War she was appointed to what was, until recent years, the highest office held by a woman in the United States. D.L.D. was the model of a Victorian spinster: having chosen not to marry, she responded to what she perceived as her calling to be the matriarch figure for society. However, unlike her proto-feminist contemporary Florence Nightingale, D.L.D. did not challenge the role of the patriarchy. Unlike some significant 19th-century figures, she did not speak out as an abolitionist. She was a woman who outlived her own era, and history has not been kind to her. Legends—some romantic, some mean-spirited—abound. These poems imagine D.L.D.’s life from her own point of view.

Ren Powell’s Website

Ren Powell at Phoenica Publishing

Ren Powell at Poemeleon

Ren Powell Elsewhere Online

alice and the rabbit – the later years

their loneliness upon returning was vast

you’d planned to move with a kind of largeness

they seemed to be talking in circles

a relatively new experience for the Bureau of Reclamation

as from a dream like enchantment we awakened entranced

the perfect white between words

if all time is eternally present

this is what it’s like

Artist Statement

Livingferal (aka Tracy Jager) uses vintage materials to create dreamscape collages. Her work has been described as “rich with poetic ambiguity.” Having previously been employed as a writer, she loves interplay between images and words, and often creates titles that suggest multiple meanings for her collages – as if they might contain secrets. Her work is influenced by dreams, and subjects like philosophy, poetry, and psychology. She lives in Vancouver, Canada, and has a BFA in Visual Art.

Tracy Jager’s flickr

Tracy’s New Website Coming Soon

Thanks to Necklush for finding this artist!

You Do Not Look Fat, acrylic on canvas with glitter and high gloss resin, 72 x 48 in.

Audrey Underwater With Lilies, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 48 x 60 in.

Trophy Wife Koi Pond, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 60 x 48 in.

Splash, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 48 x 60 in.

Last Call, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 48 x 60 in.

Trophy Wife Junk Drawer, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 72 x 48 in.

Octopus Audrey, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 24 x 24 in.

Portrait of Jane Birkin, acrylic on canvas with high gloss resin, 72 x 72 in.

About The Artist

Renowned painter, Sarah ASHLEY LONGSHORE is a New Orleans based artist who is going global. Her gallery, Longshore Studio Gallery, is snuggled in the heart of the historic Magazine Street where clients and friends are welcome to stop by the studio anytime. The studio is always bulging with new pieces encouraged by Ashley’s motto, “I wake up every morning completely inspired. A day without painting is not a day worth living. I am an artist! My job is to create and share my perspective of the world!”

Ashley’s career palette already includes series art paying homage to icons such as Audrey Hepburn and Anna Wintour, designing one of a kind furniture, painting for clients like Blake Lively and Salma Hayek, and conceptualizing art for films and television. She spent the month of September in Holland for inspiration, yet another excursion resulting in new outrageous collections. Ashley continues to design for international uber store ANTHROPOLOGIE with much anticipated new product hitting the stores in 2012.

Sarah Ashley Longshore’s Website

Sarah Ashley Longshore at Gallery orange Contemporary

Sarah Ashley Longshore on Artsy Forager

Torre Blanca, 2010, dgital collage, 66 x 51.35 cm

My Favourite Independent Bookshop: Gay’s the Word, London, 2011, for Client: The Guardian (UK)

The Amazing Truth, 2009, digital collage, 60 x 48 cm

Nisi Dominus, 2009, digital collage, 43.5 x 60 cm

Pan de Vida, 2010, digital collage 46 x 60 cm

La Pitonisa, 2010, digital collage, 50 x 65 cm

Redemption, 2009, digital collage, 42 x 60 cm

Careless  Love, 2009, digital collage, 65 x 45 cm

Protagonistas del Cambio, 2010, consumption in Colombia series for Client: Dinero, Business & Economy Magazine

Psychopathic Bosses, 2011, for Client: Dinero, Business and Economy Magazine

About the Artist

Randy Mora (b.1986, Bogotá, Columbia) is attracted to the romantic idea of rescuing things forgotten, daily paraphernalia out of context, and giving them a new purpose in new surroundings.

“That’s what excites me the most about collage. When I face a work made out of diverse elements, I have the urge to get closer and just touch it. While a painting requires a certain distance and a contemplative posture, collage on the other hand, is more an intimate experience, less ceremonial.”

Randy’s collages develop from ideas he first puts down in small sketches. During the process, however, many variables lead him to other solutions far from the original idea. He usually works in Photoshop, scanning the pictures he needs. Each one of them has its own history:  “the key is to know how to organize them into a solid concept. I don’t like to rush things.” (Cut & Paste)

Randy Mora’s Website

Randy Mora’s Blog

Randy Mora’s Flickr

Makena, 2011, oil image transfer silk resin substrate, 40 x 40 in.

Justino, 2011, oil, image transfer, and silk resin substrate, 40 x 40 in.

Identificado Con Saco Gris(Unidentified male With Grey Suit) 2010, oil, image transfer on resin panel, 48 x 48 in.

Sunmi, 2010, oil image transfer and silk resin substrate, 24 x 30 in.

Celedonio, 2011, oil image transfer and silk resin substrate, 40 x 40 in.

Nolasco, 2011, oil, image transfer and silk resin on panel, 24 x 30 in.

El Ataud, A Self Portrait, 2010, oil image transfer on canvas, 72 x 72 in.  

Artist Statement

I’m interested in chaos and accident and the harmony and beauty found within. In my work I provoke the accident to later, during the creative process, embrace it looking for reconciliation and homeostasis. My approach as when creating is a construct-demolish-repair process; during this struggle I find a brute yet honest identity of my subjects.

..our perception of the world and ourselves is grounded on explicit or implicit agreements in society.  I’m instigating this conventionalism and exposing the viewer to a visceral discourse concerned with our own bodily integrity and mortality.

Rogelio Manzo ‘s Website

anna

when she was just a girl, she expected the world

possession

sometimes the road gets rugged

a strong gust

you’re the only light 

growing weary

winter light

the past, present, and future 

Artist Statement

I am a fine art photographer living in Boston. My passion for photography has been with me since the first time I watched my father develop pictures as a child. My images are often ethereal and mysterious. I love creating stories that leave the viewer wondering what happened before and what might happen next.

Diana Lemieux’s Blog

Diana Lemieux’s flickr

I was hesitant to drop another Bowerbirds bomb on you all so soon, but this song is just too good not to share. Again, we see the North Carolinans building on their tried and trued folk ways with expanded instrumentation and more complex harmonies. Soft guitar and piano patiently open up to a crunchified guitar lick which ultimately leads to a chorus of birdlike coos, giving the band’s namesake a run for its money. Please do grab the song below, which the band is graciously giving away for free.

Bowerbirds :: In The Yard

 
Chris aims to expose viewers to some of the most legit tunes of the times, peeling back the layers of what’s relevant in current music events, with up-to-date posts of new artists and releases. Living in Chicago, Chris manages his own blog dedicated to new music releases, clips of new musicians, and announcements of upcoming shows at cool venues.

“Travel has really always been a theme in all of my works and by that, home has almost been a theme even in its absence.”  - Mikael Kennedy

 About The Artist

Mikael Kennedy is a photographer living and working in New York City. He is the author of the internationally acclaimed Polaroid travel blog: Passport to Trespass and his Polaroid work is represented by the Peter Hay Halpert Fine Art Gallery of New York City. Kennedy’s Polaroids were recently the subject of a solo show at the historic Chelsea Hotel in New York City and were shown at the International Polaroid Symposium in Cardiff, Wales where he was invited as a guest lecturer. Kennedy’s photographs have appeared in Nylon, Dazed & Confused, Blown (UK), Cosmoplotian, WWD,GQ.com. His photographs are part of the permanent collection at the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, TX as well as in private collections nationwide.

‘The Odyseuss’

Recently filmmaker Lendl Tellington along with partner Ricky Leighton and Theo Constantinou of Paradigm Magazine experienced the great opportunity of following renowned photographer, Mikael Kennedy.  Here is what was said about the experience:

Over the course of the day, Mikael discussed his photo series ‘The Odyseuss’- it’s inception and impact on his life. Mikael took us on a trip back in time as he showed us his photography and journals, all chronicling a journey with the American Landscape. – Lendl Tellington

On Februrary 10th 2012, Mikael Kennedy will be showing ‘The Odyseuss’ in Philadelphia, PA. The video below is a trailer for this final exhibition. The exhibit is being curated by Paradigm Magazine and will be shown at Studio:Christensen.

Mikael Kennedy’s Website

Mikael Kennedy presented by Paradigm Magazine at Studio Christensen

Special thanks to Lendl Tellington of Sukkatash for showing us this artist!

I kick my shoes off, plopping myself down into Aaron’s queen-sized bed and stare at the popcorn ceiling for a minute. Aaron should be coming home in about an hour and I’d prefer to be asleep when that happens. I roll over to open the drawer in his night stand and pull out a canister of weed and a small green pipe. After packing the bowl I take a big hit and lie down, holding the smoke in my lungs, withstanding the burning sensation in my chest for as long as possible before exhaling and trying not to cough. The world begins to spin a little and the ceiling looks like snow. I take another hit, put the pipe down, and close my eyes. Somewhere in the room a fly is buzzing.

It feels like my eyes have been closed for only a few minutes when Aaron comes into the apartment. Staying perfectly still, I listen to him move around the room. It wasn’t always like this. I used to stay up purposely, waiting for him to come home, wanting to be awake when he came into the bed and wrapped his arms around me. I used to lie in bed wearing only my underwear so that I could really feel his hand grazing across my side and around my stomach. I’m not sure when I began to feel differently, but at times I can barely stand being touched by him. When he leans to kiss me I automatically recoil, and though I usually catch myself in time, I know that he senses it too. I want to tell him that it’s not his fault and that it’s just me, but I’m not so sure it is.

I continue breathing deeply, pretending to be asleep when he gets into the bed and puts his arm around me. He stops mid-graze and pulls the covers back a little before shaking my shoulder softly.

“Grace,” he says. “Grace, wake up.”

“Mm?” I’ve been roused out of a deep sleep; an art that I like to think I’ve skillfully crafted over the past few months.

“You’re still wearing your school girl outfit.”

It occurs to me that I hadn’t changed out of the outfit that my all-girl band had agreed to wear for that night’s gig. And everything had been going so well. “Mhm.”

“I kinda like it,” he says. He touches my cheek softly and turns my face towards him to kiss me.

I open my eyes and smile sleepily before kissing him back and turning fully to face him; it’s easier than getting into a fight. “How was work?”

“It was okay. Would have been better if you had come by to visit.”

I smile sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I was really tired. Did you make a lot of tips?”

“Of course,” he says.

“That’s good.” I kiss him once more and then turn onto my side, away from him. He draws closer to me underneath the sheets and slips his hand under my shirt, kissing my neck. I’m still high, which helps, and the world still seems to be spinning. I try to stay still and don’t respond, but he pulls my shoulder down and turns me towards him. Kissing me again, he slips his tongue into my mouth. His hands are underneath my bra as his lips move down to my neck and I stare at the snow on the ceiling. He is on top of me now, pulling my underwear off and slithering his way between my legs. I let him, because I have nowhere else to go.

When I wake up in the morning, I can hear the fly that I had heard while drifting off to sleep the night before. I open my eyes and watch it throwing itself against the window above the bed, trying again and again to get outside, buzzing loudly with each failed attempt. I realize that I’m still naked, so I carefully crawl out of the bed and make my way into the shower. Like I said, it wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always feel dirty after sleeping with Aaron. The first month or two that we were together, it seemed like I couldn’t get enough of him, like we made love every night. These days I’m usually asleep by the time he gets home and we just have sex. I wonder if he knows the difference.

Standing in the shower, the scalding water beats against my neck. For a moment I want to go home, to San Diego, to my mother’s house, but I know that I can’t. It’s not my home anymore and I don’t really want to go back; I just miss my mom and sister. The hot water beats down on me and I turn around to stick my face under it, washing the tears off. I’ve got to get out of here soon.

Aaron is awake when I walk back into the room wrapped in a towel. He’s smiling at me in that sickly sweet way that I used to love.

“I never understand how you can be up so early and ready to go the way you do in the morning. Especially after a late night gig like last night,” he says.

I’m not sure if by gig he is referring to my band’s show at The Back Alley or the late night sex. “Well you’re a night person. I’m a morning person,” I say, slipping my underwear on underneath my towel. I’m really not a morning person; I’ve just gotten into the habit of trying to sleep before he gets home, so my internal clock is off. My back is to him, but I can feel him watching me. Turning around, still wrapped in my towel, I sit on the bed and kiss him on the cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

He smiles at me, turning over and closing his eyes. “Don’t have to tell me twice, but wake me up and say goodbye when you go.”

I say that I will, but when I am fully dressed and ready to leave, I don’t.

I drive over to the post office and write a check to my mother, slip it into an envelope, and stick it into the mailbox. This is the primary reason I’ve been having a difficult time saving enough money to move out, but it is an obligation that I must fulfill. I have no resentment in doing it, even though I know that in some ways I am not really helping my mother’s situation, but somebody has to help her feed my half-sister even if her own father won’t.

Standing outside of the post office, I pick up my phone and dial the number to the house that was once my home. The cool autumn breeze rustles my hair, cobwebbing across my face and into my eyelashes. I turn towards the wind, listening to the phone ring as post office workers walk by, along with people who actually have places to go. The phone line clicks and the low raspy voice that I want to hear the least answers. Of course he’d still be home.

“Rick. Is my mom home?”

“Hola niña. Why don’t you want to talk to me?”

“I’m not a little girl y por favor just give mi madre el teléfono.”

“How’s your gringo boyfriend?”

“How’s the job hunting? Have you gotten off your lazy drunk ass to support mi madre y tu hija yet?”

“Pendeja, don’t talk to me like that.”

“Pues I didn’t call to talk to you. Just give my mom the fucking phone.”

He starts to curse about me to my mother, his voice muffled, probably with his hand over the receiver. His voice fades away and it is quiet when my mother’s voice, always sounding energetic, answers. “Graciella. Que pasa mija?”

“Nothing Mamí. I just wanted to let you know I sent another check your way today.”

“Ay. Cuantos tiempos necesito decirte que no necesitas mandarme dinero?” She always tries to sound disapproving, but I can hear the relief in her voice.

“It’s okay Mamí. I’m making enough con la banda y los estudiantes. I want to make sure you guys are okay. Besides, Rick still doesn’t have a job, verdad?”

My mother hesitates. “Ricky is trying. He’s been looking for jale pero you know, it’s difficult con la economía.”

I’m glad my mother can’t see me because she hates when I roll my eyes. She used to say it made me look like I was possessed by el Diablo when I was little. I don’t say anything and the silence is filled with wind blowing around me and into the phone.

“He’s getting better,” she says again.

Those terrorizing nights in that house; the nights that made me leave as soon as I could, suddenly pop into my head. I focus on the brightness of the sun and it’s warmth on my face. “Alright Mamí. Give Angelica un beso for me.”

I hang up the phone and walk back to my car, hesitating at the door and turning my face back up to the sun. It probably doesn’t feel this nice in San Diego; it’s usually too cold down, too near the beach. Los Angeles is far enough away that it’s usually the perfect temperature for me. Maybe one day my mom and Angelica can come visit me, but I definitely need my own place before that can happen. I get into my car, unsure of where to go next. I don’t have any students on Saturdays and I don’t want to go back to Aaron’s, so I give Brandon a call.

I’ve been to Brandon’s house before but never during the day. I realize that it’s actually much bigger in the light than I had realized. I park my car, walk up to the house and knock. He seems to be at the door almost instantaneously as it opens only moments later. Brandon’s face is like a breath of fresh air. Seeing him seems to bring me away from San Diego and from Aaron’s apartment in a way that only being physically absent from those places doesn’t, or perhaps it’s just his weed.

“Sorry for coming over without a heads up.”

“No problem,” he beams at me.

We walk into the living room and flop down onto the couch. He’s got the TV already turned to Comedy Central, the channel we always watch together, and the bong sitting next to the coffee table already has a bowl packed in it. It’s like he knew I was coming.

“Is that bowl for me?” I ask, nodding my head towards the glass piece, wondering for a minute how they’re made anyway.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I smile. “Alright, maybe in a little bit. I don’t want you to think I come over here just to smoke your weed.”

“You know you’re always welcome to it.”

“Yeah.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “Oh and thanks for coming to our show last night.”

“No problem. Best all-girl rock band I know.”

I laugh. “Only all-girl rock band you know.”

I’ve known Brandon since our freshman year of college and he’s been to every one of my band’s gigs since. We were both in the Introduction to Music Class and with his Classical Piano major and my alternative drumming style our friendship was a bit of a surprise to the both of us, but smoking, cigarettes or otherwise, brings people together in unexpected ways.

We chat for a little bit, watching the TV every now and again until I pick up the bong and take a hit. My body melts into the couch and any lingering thoughts of the home that I no longer belong to have dissipated with the smoke and any thoughts of Aaron with them as well. For a minute I forget that I even exist, until my phone buzzes. I look at the screen, concentrating to read Aaron’s name. I put it down on the table without answering it.

“Is it the boyfriend?” Brandon asks.

I nod.

“How are things with him anyway?”

I glare at him.

“What? I’m just asking. Are they that bad?”

“I don’t know. Things are different and not in a good way. Things with him just feel,” I pause, looking for the right word before continuing, “too sober, even though I’m high at his place all the time.” The words leave my lips, moving as slowly as the time feels like it’s passing, as slow as the smoke swirls around in the air above us. I laugh.

“Well, that’s what happens when you move in with somebody before you’re ready.”

I can see the words taking form in the smoke and coming towards me across the space between us and I want to put my arms up to deflect them. Instead, I laugh again. “Well, what choice do I have?”

He shrugs. “You can move here. Stay with me.”

I laugh a third time, realizing in my laughter that he’s being serious but it’s too late, I can’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I say in between chortles. “I don’t know why it’s so funny.” The thought had never occurred to me and perhaps that’s why it’s so funny; it’s too perfect. Brandon’s house has three bedrooms, two of which are occupied by him and his brother; however, the third is more of an office, but there is in fact an extra bed for any friends that may be too drunk or too high to drive home. I feel like something inside of me has opened up, something inside that I forgot I had. Perhaps my soul. It was crushed down like an aluminum can, and with Brandon’s offer the can was pulled open again; it still has all of the wrinkles and lines from being compacted, but there it was a can again rather than a crumpled piece of aluminum.

“Would that really be okay?” I ask. “Your brother wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not. You’re one of my best friends and my brother loves you too. It could be fun.”

“I’d love to, but I wouldn’t be able to pay any rent.”

“I already know this. Look, I just don’t want you to be miserable and lately, I can tell you’ve been miserable.”

I shrug. “Let me think about it.”

That evening, when I get back to the apartment, it’s late enough that Aaron has gone to work already; a benefit of dating a bartender, especially when you don’t want to be dating him anymore. I pull my drum set piece by piece out of my car and set it up in the living room. Taking a seat on my throne, I tap each drum once to check if they’re the right height. After adjusting one cymbal I tap it a few times and then sit for a minute with my eyes closed, thinking about what I should play. Maybe a jazz beat, or perhaps Latin, smooth and soothing, or maybe I just want to bang on stuff. A buzzing interrupts my thoughts. I keep my eyes closed and tilt my head in the direction of the sound, probably the kitchen window. That’s quite a journey from the bedroom to the kitchen for you little fly, I think to myself. The buzzing is in the same odd rhythm as this morning. It makes a small tap against the glass, some buzzing followed by another small tap or two and then buzzing again. With a smile on my face, I open my eyes, bringing one of my drumsticks above the snare, listening for the cue. There is the tap and I drop my stick on the snare to buzz with the fly. I do it a few times, a light roll on the snare for the buzz, a light thud on the kick bass for when the fly hits the window.

Within a few minutes that almost nervous feeling I get when I open my eyes during a gig and see the crowd dancing to the beat that I’m laying down begins to stir in my gut and suddenly, the rhythm springs out of me like my stick rebounding off of a drum. I have to control it with my arms and legs; a flurry of movements seemingly independent from the rest of my body. The beat isn’t Latin, or jazz, it’s faster than those but slower than rock. It’s in between. Uncategorized. Alive. I can speed it up, or slow it down. The control is here—in hands. With these two simple pieces of wood I can control so much.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been playing, but just as suddenly as I had started, I stop. Sighing into the silence I listen to the fly, still trying to get out. I go into the bedroom and pack another bowl. I look at it. Then put it down. The leaves outside of the open window are shushing the silence and a siren goes off in the distance, overpowering the buzzing of the fly.

I must have fallen asleep because I wake up when Aaron crawls into the bed beside me, a ritual that I used to think I’d never get enough of, but somehow I had. I stir only when I hear the flick of the lighter and smell the weed. I’ve fallen asleep still wearing my clothes for the second night in a row, so I get up to change into pajamas and then crawl back to my side of the bed. Without saying anything, he passes me the pipe and I take a hit.

“I missed you all day,” he says.

I nod and smile my half sleepy, half high smile at him.

“I tried calling you,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I totally passed out.” I take another hit and pass the pipe back to him. The hit was too big and I cough for a long time until I lie down, gasping for air. He lies next to me and rubs my arms, kissing my shoulder. I can’t breathe. He moves close to me, spooning me, sliding his hand around my waist, encircling me in his arm. The world seems to spin, sending the bed into a strange wave-like motion. He breathes quietly behind my ear and I shut my eyes to calm the waves underneath the bed. When the bed is still, a rhythm enters my head, telling me to leave in the morning.

When I wake up, I follow through with my usual routine, except that I fill one of my duffel bags with as much clothes as I can and as quietly as possible. With one bag filled, I take it to my car and load it along with my drums. I go back in and grab another duffel bag for the rest of my clothes. As I fill the second duffel, Aaron wakes up. He watches me from the bed for a few minutes before it dawns on him what I am doing.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit my mom.”

“But I thought you hate going back there.”

I don’t respond.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

I smile at him. “Of course. I’ve already made arrangements with my students. Everything is fine. I just want to see my mom and sister.” I feel like shit. He really is a nice guy and deserves better but I don’t know what else to do. Running is all I’ve ever done. I don’t know what I would say to him if he were to ask me why, so it’s better to pretend that nothing was wrong. Even if I tried to tell him that he loved me too much and that I’m just a fucked up person who can only do what I wished a thousand times that my mother would do to Rick, I doubt he’d understand. I grab my pillow and blanket as casually as possible and leave the room.

He follows me into the kitchen where I put my bag down on the counter and grab a pop-tart.

“Well,” he says, sitting at the kitchen table. “When are you going to be back?”

Never. “A few days, maybe a week.” I stand by the kitchen window, peeling the wrapper of my pop tart. The clouds outside seem so soft and calm, hanging in the blue sky, floating by ever so slowly. At the bottom of the window sill, lying dead in the dust and dirt is the fly, so close to that crystal sky that it probably killed itself trying to get to.

I can feel Aaron staring at the side of my face, as if he knows that something is wrong but won’t say it.

“What?” I ask, turning to him nervously.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

There is something about his expression that I can’t quite place and for a minute it makes me wonder why I’m leaving. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see you later.” I pick up my bag to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he asks.

I smile and kiss him. “Sorry. Bye.”

“See you later.”

I walk out of the apartment and into the late autumn air. I won’t be back and I’m not sure if I’m happy about it.

It’s a little bit awkward driving around all day with all of my things stuffed into the back of my small car so after I finish all of my lessons I head over to Brandon’s. He’s not home yet and I sit inside my car to wait for him. I give him a call but I know that he’s at work. I sit and wait, playing Tetris on my phone. This is what I would end up doing if I really had nowhere else to go; I’d live in my car. I could do it. I’ve heard stories of my grandmother’s sisters, living homeless in the streets of Guadalajara, selling whatever they could, including themselves, in order to make it to the United States. Apparently they made it. My uncle has told me that he and my mother were products of my grandmother’s journey across the border. I wonder if I’m a product of some mistake my mother had made long ago, even though she’s told me my entire life that she loved my father and that he just loved somebody else. I’d always suspected she was lying, even more so that night on Cinco de Mayo so many years ago when she and Rick got drunk and they told me that they loved each other and that they were going to get married. The only good thing that ever followed that night was Angelica.

It is dusk when Brandon finally comes home. He is surprised to see me and lets me into the house, helping me carry some of my things.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know ahead of time.” I’m always apologizing.

“That’s okay. Make yourself comfortable.”

I set my things down in the spare room without bothering to open any of them.  We spend the evening like we normally would together; on the couch. Brandon packs a bowl for the bong and offers it to me. I shake my head.

“That’s a first. Are you sure?” he asks.

Again I shake my head. He shrugs and takes a hit, setting the bong down on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch, I can feel something inside of me pulling me; as if the bong has its own gravity and I’m rotating around it. I try to focus on the TV but Brandon takes another hit and sets it closer to me. My instincts tell me to reach for the bong, but there’s a rhythm in my head that stops me.

In the middle of the night, I lie awake, watching the darkness swirl around me. I’m sinking into the bed and the bed is sinking into the earth. I notice a fly buzzing against the window and think for a moment that it might be the fly from this morning. I grab the empty cup next to the bed and carefully chase the fly from the top of the window to the bottom corner where I catch it inside the cup. I watched my mother do this a thousand times when I was little because the screens in our house always had holes in them and the flies always found their way in but could never find their way out. I tread lightly through the dark house to the front door, letting the fly go outside. Gently, I shut the door and head back towards my room. I lie in my bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling. I can feel it in my head. The buzzing. I close my eyes and try to sleep but the world is still, not rocking in the way I’ve grown accustomed to, so I crawl out of bed and make my way to Brandon’s closed door. I stand at the door and listen carefully before pushing on it gently. The latch is already undone and it swings open quietly. He is still awake.

“Grace?” His voice rises from the dark.

I pad over to the side of his bed and crawl in.

I take a hit from the pipe on the side of his bed as he slides his hand across my stomach underneath my shirt. The world swirls around me again. I make little circles on the nape of his neck with my fingertips before pulling him towards me. Somewhere I hear another fly in the house, I’m sure of it.

Melody Kowach is currently earning her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of California, Riverside where she is also on staff at CRATE literary magazine. Originally a screenwriter, she has recently transitioned into writing fiction and is currently working on her first novel. In addition to being a writer she is also a musician, teaching violin and piano to young children. She resides in Chino Hills, CA.