Unity and Struggle

I've always loved this.

"That mixture of America and Remerica and them Changes, them blue Africa magic chants. So I am a carrier. I got the stick. I ain't stopping. If you, whoever else you tapped, then them too."

http://mailer.fsu.edu/~njumonvi/baraka-miles.htm

work mule

that's me. lexie workmule ann diao. work's hard round here, but the warm whiskeys ain' half bad.

With rue or without, I think the first two hours of every day should be spent nude.

Update! And go!

It's been a while since I've posted anything. But here's an update: I'm cooling it with "Diao's Meow". Sorry, blogspot. But wordpress has the multimedia thing down.

As I write this, I'm in Manila: a solid 12 hours ahead of good ol' Tallahassee, sitting in a seaweed green guest bedroom, hoping my rapid typing isn't keeping the mer-maids in the next room awake.

Before now, summer in the US had been kind to me. I took an extended stay in Columbia, SC with the Mom and made it up to DC for a few beautiful days with some very beautiful people. Had a short stint in Tallahassee before taking the arduous solid 27-hour plus commute to the Philippines. While home, I worked at the Paperback Rack for a little extra cash flow, and hung out with two of my favs: Nige and Cale.





I'll be focusing on another blog that's dedicated to the oral history project about the equity compensation bill for Filipino veterans (whew). Follow me at: meowdiao.wordpress.com

The last week of spring semester is always tres rough. My treat to myself today was eating the equivalent of my weight in pizza, and a shower.

This is Old

"I'd sew your buttons for you," he said as he fingered the empty space behind her ear. She couldn't tell if this tickled or annoyed her, but she must have made disgruntled look because he quickly retreated his hand. Smoke crept steadily up from her neglected Nat Sherman. "I know how to sew" she lied. The last two buttons hung pathetically off of her once five-button petticoat. You used to be so full. She was an acquaintance to minor wardrobe malfunctions: stilettos breaking, shoes mysteriously disappearing (but just one) and of course the sempiternal thread hanging from every article of clothing. When he wasn't looking she ripped the loose thread of her lost buttons from her petticoat.

Sharon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face had not changed, but she felt re-(insert verb here). Why so fresh? She is a pampered girl, but far from indulgent. It is the little occurrences and lingering sartoris on which Sharon dwells. Memories to stash in her pocket to snack on later. A last drag on her cigarette and she looks not at him, but herself through his eyes. Nothing she didn't already know. When one is so vain it is only rises to the skin like helium, fills a balloon and eventually diffuses to those around them.

She took his hand and put his middle finger in her mouth. The pit of his stomach stirred. Secretly he was a little worried he forgot to wash his hands using the bathroom.

My goal for my summer travels is to pack as light as possible. Last year when my housemate, Jamie traveled to Thailand for three weeks she brought nothing but a duffel bag. I for one consider that to be badass. So far, I've got a few things figured out, but nothing set in stone. Not even travel dates. I still have to apply for a travel visa, but I'm considering extending my stay to a month, and taking time out to meet my friend Colleen in Singapore. All signs point to yes.

I'll fly out with my family (plenty of us are going) at the end of May/beginning of June. When I fly back near July, I'm hoping to conduct interviews in the bay area and hang out for maybe a week. Hoping some friends could meet me out there - it would be lovely to see familiar faces after staying so far in a foreign land. Any takers?

More on that later.

---------------

Last night made me fall in love with Tallahassee all over again. Barefeet, a dancing baby, and mashed potatoes in a dive bar. Yes please. That and the simple fact that Gina could rap/sing all of the words to "Whatta Man". With ease. The song has been cemented into my daily life, by the way, since visiting the Shenandoah Valley last month, and taking one of the best fucking car rides of my life. Check it:

hallo spring, hallo

the entrance of dogwood is closely followed by the appearance of wisteria
it's lavender blooms never fail nostalgia's fawn
the crunch of tree sperm under my tires, footsteps
layering the front doorknob and hazing my forward gaze
make for itchy eyes and clogged passages.
opportunity never seemed so vulnerable.

Springtime Tallahassee is a parade strategically planned around the legislative session. True story. Parades have always freaked me out, personally. So I skipped it, and devoured the last bit of jambalaya and rice from Dew Drop In Cafe in a paper cup and complimentary cornbread.

Blueberry Soup, et al.

In the process of making a mixed tape of my fave Swedish artists as part of a care package. 90's throwback!

Back into the groove of things.

Happy to be home.

Unititled 2

Cherries are kisses
He said, bloody lips and all.
Don't buy fruit on sale.

Forgot to post this

href="http://www.npr.org/internedition/fall09/story.php?id=3

Dress Yourself in Past Lovers

"Ex Boyfriends"
They hang around, hitting on your friends
or else you never hear from them again.
They call when they're drunk, or finally get sober,

they're passing through town and want dinner,
they take your hand across the able, kiss you
when you come back from the bathroom.

They were your loves, your victims,
your good dogs or bad boys, and they're over
you now. One writes a book in which a woman

who sounds suspiciously like you
is the first to be sadistically dismembered
by a serial killer. They're getting married

and want you to be the first to know,
or they've been fired and need a loan,
their new girlfriend hates you,

they say they don't miss you but show up
in your dreams, calling to you from the shoeboxes
where they're buried in rows in your basement.

Some nights you find one floating into bed with you,
propped on an elbow, giving you a look
of fascination, a look that says I can't believe

I've found you. It's the same way
your current boyfriend gazed at you last night,
before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights

above the bed, and moved against you in the dark
broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs
of headlights from the freeway's passing trucks,

the big rigs that travel and travel,
hauling their loads between cities, warehouses,
following the familiar routes of their loneliness.

-Kim Addonizio,'What is This Thing Called Love'(2004)