queste storie d'inchiostro stessi

quando ho amore per te, c'è un sacco di esso

eating is the only real legitamate reason for travel

books about good eats. i mean, does it get better?
here is to another year of fantastic food.

naked thoughts

i have been a long time fan of VPL and victoria bartlett.
i had the wonderful opportunity to work briefly at VPL a few years
ago and i fondly remember it. the day i spent working directly with
victoria was a day that i learned more about the industry then i did
in all of my internship years before.

the human anatomy became the main inspiration behind my
design work when i was in my third year at university in italy.
for me, it was only the obvious choice being that my father is
a bone doctor and i was always fascinated by blood, cuts and medical
instruments. in his honor, i constructed a kimono like robe with the nervous,
respiratory, digestive and circulatory systems embroidered all over it.
it was certainly a labour of love. for now my creations have been
distilled to the human heart valentines i make annually.
its so inspiring to see how VPL has explored this influence and i really
do hope this exhibit makes a debut in new york.
check out my fawning over VPL at SCOUT.
video by dopolavoro gallery, milan.

a memory of the smell of smoke

i have this thing that i always do...
enter these contests to win trips to wonderful getaways,
like barcelona and paris.
the entry forms usually include a bit to offer your own quip
of the city and why you want to visit it.
i always take a decent amount of time and conjure up something
completely over the top about the locale and my recent
bit for the YSL parisienne contest was no different,
actually, i deem this one the most blown up yet...
i think its quite funny.
it started from my entry last year for a flavorpill trip to paris
(which i did not win)

the pale lights and mysterious darkness of Paris cast a
glow and haze over its sights. The ambiguity of both the
soft sparkle and shadow, high and low of everyday Parisian
life inspire my work in photography and painting. From the cafes
to the catacombs, I aspire to explore the light, dark and all the
rooftop shades of grey in between. Paris leaves its lovers with
a glint in their eye and a melancholy in their hearts. I'd like to be
one of them and take my journey to inform my creative palate.

now for the YSL Parisienne bit...


Soft Sparkle and Shadow, the Fragrant Air of a Charmed Life

The pale lights and mysterious darkness of Paris cast a
glow and haze over its sights. The ambiguity of both the
soft sparkle and shadow, high and low of everyday inspire the
Vie Parisienne. From the cafes to the catacombs, there is a light,
dark and all the rooftop shades of grey in between. Paris leaves its
lovers with a glint in their eye and a melancholy in their hearts,
a never-ending longing for the city of light and spirit.

Every time I leave Paris and travel to other cities, I can feel the
essence trail behind me. I have sat in cafes in Prague, looked out
rooftop windows in New York and walked quiet winding streets in
Sevilla and felt the lingering air of Paris. It is as if the zephyr Parisienne
has flowed and followed me in every locale since my last stop within
its walls. This current forms a constant aroma that embodies and invites
all in its path, but is forever Parisienne.

The spirit of Parisienne is like an old suitcase for a truly chic lady traveler.
The make is of no concern, it is beautifully crafted of dusty worn leather
and has stamps from its exotic destinations, some a bit faded, while others
are barely visible. You see it has made loops around this world, but holds its
true refinement so steady. It has a classic origin, a history, a charm, but is a
persuasive individual of its own. I take this suitcase, this experience around
the world with me and place it at my doorstep upon my return to my own
city of New York, where the experience Parisienne also lies.

There is a jazz bar in Brooklyn I go to on weeknights. I can sit and
have an aperitif and watch the smoky shadows of its mysterious interior.
I can tap my Tribute heel to a beguiling rhythm and the room melts into
the one I was once in St. Germain. A beaten bar beneath the street,
one you would never find, but you are inexplicably led to by chance.
A night of dancing and vin rouge, an evening so unforgettable and
one you blissfully remember with such simplicity.

Seated in front of a steamy cafe au lait at Balthazar in Soho in the
early morning winter copper haze. The place is nearly empty save
for an early bird businessman and maybe some writers of sorts. It is easy
to slip into this moment and enjoy the soft sights in the antiqued mirrors.
It is effortless to lose yourself and look through the glass and set your eyes
on a calm morning in Le Marais.

The experience Parisienne is busy with the beat, loving and longing, a fragrant
air that twirls a charmed life together.

everything counts in large amounts

i have a new gig, writing weekly for Scout, an Australian trend and
fashion company and website.
so check it out. its a bit different than here. a nice change.

the things we say to strangers

i found myself going on tonight, wildly, with very little encouragement
from the start about my trip.
saying things to this person i have known for five minutes,
things i have never told anyone. even myself.
it seems to all make sense as it departs from my mouth.
i am forming my thoughts in my mouth and
they are just taking this winded crazed flight.
but its deeper than that, they are imprinted somewhere on my heart.
now is just the time to read these maps.
i don't even think about these words or conceive them,
they do the work themselves. they are so raw,
they don't even have the moment to become contrived and dishonest.
waving my hands in the air and pushing down my bangs.
like bangs i had when i was six and my mother would take me
to get a balloon and a braid.
i wanted to get bangs to hide behind. i thought i needed
a shield for my return to new york.
because the last five months had been full of exposure.
i can't believe i hopped around like i did.
that i let the wind carry me.
that i was able to be effortless.
and full of lightness.
i used to be shy.

encouragement came from my listener.
it felt good to go on. i guess i haven't been able to since i have returned.
i felt so humbled when she called me an inspiration.
it just was what i was suppose to do and like D told me,
'you allowed yourself to move and be moved by life'
but aren't we all?
i was just paying attention and following the path placed in front of me.
i didn't think i had any other choice.

i wanted to be terrified.
that seems so strange to admit.
i wanted to see what i could accomplish alone.
i wanted to be uncomfortable and see what i was made of.

i told my listener, that i didn't know if i could travel with other people now.
that i dream of going to egypt. to india. to iran.
that i am planning a new trip already.
about the exact moment when i decided i had to leave new york.

i was wooing them in now.
my excitement was like a disease.
i wished for them to go and get on the plane.
what has gotten into me?
i felt like i was on the ceiling, watching a video of myself
enticing everyone to act with utter wanderlust.

today, i was thinking about the women i worked with in armenia.
how i cried when i was leaving them. how they moved me.
and how i had no idea that i moved them until the moment i was leaving.

those faces, they remember

this face i'd seen so many times

sat across from and shared with

watching emilia, she is always thinking

her hair back in braids, whitened now

she is mostly quiet but always thinking

i try to convey how my time spent with her those six years ago was so influential to me

i hope i did somehow

i attempt to explain in broken italian how i was nostalgic for her fig jam

and i made my version in her honor and now i make it every autumn

people here, remember me when they see me

that is a strange feeling

that they remember when they see me, until they see me they have forgotten

light that fades wool

i like to ride the slow autobus, when i need to think and if i'm not running too late.
i got on this morning, we started to roll and
a character tapped the tin of the back of the vehicle.
he got on and hopped in the seat welded to the hump about the wheel,
his reflections motions of the movement
i watched him as he talked with his hands,
his peach shirt like the fruits they have been picking as of late, its the season
his face aged and tan, the sunlight through the stale curtains warmed the back of my neck,
i could feel the colour coming up
the light made a window pane pattern on his trousers and
i noticed there was a hole burned through by a cigarette
i could see him, hand talking wildly and the accident happening and
him having a wild laugh about it
he wore them so proudly, you could tell they had ages on them
he shouted up to the driver his desired destination
and nearly catapulted himself out of his welded seat and
hung to the hand rails like a monkey on jungle limbs
when the autobus paused, i didn't see him make his exit
my view somehow was obstructed, by what i don't remember
but we started again and i heard the tap on the tin,
maybe he didn't want us to forget him and i won't

trains over planes

i knew it was time to leave Spain because i found myself getting

annoyed by how loud everyone was talking and how they formed a

massive clot in front of the check in desk.

i can't stand air travel. i'd rather travel four days and nights on

a train than two hours by plane.

noone was picky on the flight, they all devoured the awful sandwiches

they handed out- i didn't like that and found myself getting irritated with

the idea. maybe i was just overly looking forward to my lunch full of summer

cucumbers and pine nuts. i made a salad for myself last night,

something exactly like my father would do and i liked that.

i was able to read so i take this flight for that and made progress in my

new book, unlike i have been able to for the past few weeks.

i don't feel the winter warmth i felt last time with my arrival here in prague.

when you don't or can't leave the airport grounds you feel stuck and have

the sense that you could be anywhere.

the last time i arrived, Z was waiting for me in a room in an old chapel,

ready and waiting in winter boots with our sites and plans. i so fondly

remember this meeting and we always laugh when we tell the story.

the last time for someone over czech beer. our listener was amused

and found us emotional and wonderful in the endearing way we were.

we stammered on the crosswalk. when it was time to walk we keep up.

on and on. i have always loved that about us. stopped at crosswalks

when its time to walk. we have uncovered a great many mysteries in

these moments. and laughed at passengers in passing cars that give

us a view of the past in their front window frame. he urged us to move

forward and we remembered him and reeled him back into our web of

that moments vitality. he was smiling and i knew he felt easy.

his nervousness gone. a little drunk but calm and sure in that moment.

i wished to lay my hand on his face. sew my fingers to his clean jaw.

i was pleased to see him like this. he is at his best. and the week had

been difficult in ways i couldn't say then because i couldn't think.

for a long time i have been unable to uncover why i couldn't say it all.

the intensity shattered my thoughts. today i read...

'sometimes we reveal the most when we are least like ourselves...

you are like me, wishing for the perfect moment, but nothing too long

imagined can be perfect in a worldly way. neither one of us can say

just the right thing. we are overwhelmed.'

on the next plane. and i'm not sure if i'm actually prepared.

i'm reading and writing on the bag allocated for vomiting.

what am i doing, i just couldn't find anything else to write on. but had to.

czech airline tv is showing this crazy animal that is related to the

stegosaurus. this is the coolest animal i have ever seen, beside the leopard cat.

its elephant, zebra, small horse and bear all in one. it swims too.

why have i not seen this before? and what is it doing on czech airline tv?

and then surfing on tv. what i've give to be on a wave right now?

its like this preprogrammed airplane tv is playing my thoughts before i think them.

we land. euros for drams. get the visa. woah, i gotta get a police man hat.

in line for the stamp and the pass through. i'm too tired for this, its four am.

i don't know exactly what they are telling me but i get a few words and i know

the look of the temper. oh, this i've learned well. he doesn't like that i have an

armenian name and look armenian and can't say much in armenian.

he is saying some things and i know they aren't complements.

i grab the passport and know the most important lesson on my trip will need to

used in full effect in this moment.

i smile big, even though i'm exhausted and pretty sure i'm going to cry and

say thank you very much. in armenian.

this is arriving.

i am here to learn to live with lightness

i sit in the cafes long enough to see its many faces of the day-

a traveler to consume cakes and coffees, to study the population

with this simple act.

it writes a book of truth, at day break it concludes and we will

rip out the pages.

i used to get scared and anxious when the seats at the cafes

and bars would fill up with couples and triples and foursomes of

people and parties and i would be the sole inhibitor of my place setting.

but that feeling has escaped me and now i only notice it as the natural

traffic of space, time and people.

some stay only a few moments, to regain their days and leave with

their glasses a sip full,

others linger longer, making a day of their drink.

i find myself in places and i find places in myself

that i know i'll long for, to come back to

i envision my return over and over

the comfort i feel is so automatic, i swear i've known this city

unlike any other i have visited in my travels so far.

i think there is a time and place for all my outlets and creations

i wish to delve upon. i feel them all inside of me, but they only

let themselves escape at certain moments.

i must be patient and learn to know when it is a flight of fancy

or a proper signal.

at this moment words flow easily out of my heart, head and hand

its though i barely think about them, they simply have a way

with themselves and i loosely coax and cradle them, but

they continue to their preferred shapes and compositions.

its as though every thought and feeling i attempt to render

pours through me.

its nearly uncontrollable. its strange to me actually, i'm only a vessel

and its as i could write with the inspiration of any vision that enters

my field of senses

i feel its my purpose and its meant to be so easy and fluid.

my lids can't hold themselves up and if i noticed a feather falling from

the flight of the sky, i'd try to grasp it and curl myself on its wispy limbs

for a small siesta.

like i am drunk but have not ingested anything with hinderance.

maybe my vision is blurred by the galao and portuguese cakes,

which i find superior to all those i have sampled thus far in my city search.

i must learn to write with other emotions beside intrigue and wonderment,

i don't want to bore my reader.

i have friends at home in nyc and they look at situations and see the

impossibilities form before their eyes.

i am not casting criticism, as i know that view, i have felt its weight and

its creation of tightly braided tensions.

but it amazes me and makes me wonder because my field of vision

yields something so different as if so much possibility is provided,

i can't decide my colour to pick or path to tread, they all appeal

in their own shimmering ways-

visions of shimmering possibilities.

i think my path will take many turns and each bender before the next

prepares me with strength and honesty for what follows suit.

i am able to write here so quickly and with fluid motions, but i've been

able to write many places thus far...

i aspire to journey with an open mind and find inspiration in all that i see,

whether i'm pleased by it or not.

i am here to learn to live with lightness.

vermillion ties

on the morning walk, i happened upon a lonely patch of
vermillion poppies

i looked both ways, picked on and tied it up in my unruly hair

maybe it would add a bit of complement to my newly acquired
cocoa freckles and lavender rosewater oiled curls and salt sea stains

i tie up the young tomato plants that are starting to offer flowers

to the stakes to afford them strength against the levante

i tie them with strips of orange tshirt and i love how they look
adhered to the bamboo with loops and bows

we're out, like svelte fish, arm over arm

we have good fun and offer bits of banter in english, spanish, french and italian.

it amuses me when i say some random thing i always say and he wonders its origin

and i have the moment to explain my isms and i love that and try to cleverly define

the things i have created.

we sit out on the green waves for a few minutes and i have my eye peeled for

the one i have chosen

he notices this as i ready myself and almost too late shouts, 'paddle anushka!'

its got me by the feet and i rise up with it and pop to the stance we have been

perfecting for days

i'm looking down and it seems still for the second before it breaks

i've got it, i'm holding on, wax under soles, my soul on this one

and i flip off the back of my craft, into the curl motion of the ocean

feet over my head, salt tossed, head up out of water

he's got a big smile for me and says that was a big one

volko and i

volko and i peer out of our top bunk, one eye up

lounging and lazy like the love cats that we are

the boy is peeking his head into the casita, waking us from afternoon siesta

and offering a quick ride to the sea

i stretch and jump out because i have been dreaming about riding waves

i leave volko basking in the heat that rises to the top of our little house

he has got leopard markings and little else on the agenda for the day

he is gonna store up sleep so that at four in the morning

he can jump on and attempt to woe and play with wide eyes

this is his most charming hour

his saucer eyes and innocence in totally endearing, licking my hands

he thinks fast and there is a subtle way about him i like and i think this

is the quality i love in people, give me some mystery and the nuances of you

are a bit hard to find, i like to explore

fresca joven

this lunch is what my spanish suenos are made of,

so it gets its own post.

i sought out mariscos emilio with a mission to complete, oysters and manzanilla.

fresco y frio. the word on the calle was that this was the freshest in sevilla.

this was reason solo enough to come to this city.

the bar was seemingly full and i wandered back and fro from the dining room,

waiting for a seat.

a lovely japanese business man was finishing up, questioned me a bit and

offered up his place at the steel bar. barman totally scoffs at me and then i lay it down.

poneme una manzanilla y cuatro ostras (literally, you say put on me what you would like to order)

he stops the ridule and raises a brow, es la verdad senor, i'm no joke and i wanna eat the sea.

we then discuss my shrimp options and i decided on some raw mariscos con cabezas

with my oysters and old lady drink. vamos a comer!

the rest of this may become hazy and dreamlike, it was my sublime.

and i embark on a low tide high.

manzanilla is the speciality drink of andalucia, its a crisp dry sherry served iced cold.

its bloody wonderful with seafood and totally refreshing and

i plan on consuming much more after this lunch.

the mariscos arrive doused in a bit of rock salt. i feel like i just stepped foot on the shore.

i waste no time and peel, suck and indulge myself til i'm giddy,

discarding each decapitated specimen on a plate like a white moon.

ostras interrupt me. they are mucho mas grande than those i'm used to at my

brooklyn beloved marlow and son.

i order another glass and i'm well on my path to oblivion.

i'm meant to arrive at the seaside in a few days but these glossy half shells make

my mouth feel like it beat my body there.

this amigos, is why i chose spain.

i stop for a moment to look up and enjoy the chaos. cockles and calamari. canas and cracking.

these dudes behind the bar are making a swift dance pouring cerveza and knocking open shellfish.

sadly, i finish up my plate, want to order more.

watch the dance a bit longer and let senor know i'm ready to depart.

he seizes the moment again but nod with approval at my empty plates and glass,

'veintiuno, joven' (translation: 21, young one)

hit it.

mariscos emilio!

calle genova, 1

sevilla espana

sea breeze dries

the graphicissmo from spring 2009 has remained but now its sliced, diced 

and infused in and between with malibu hues in dreamy shades.

these colours are familiar to us but feel so soft and calm, as if we are

maybe only looking with one lazy eye up so they appear new and we are half asleep.

his print focus with the fusion of photographic parrots, leopard and flowers in

newsprint black and white looks fresh but not overwhelming. its understated and

that is the beauty of it. it has a cut and paste way about it and its nothing he has

done yet and something that will be replicated down the fashion chain.

yet again he simply evolves slowly and does what he does best, beautifully.

i think it boudior ladies at the beach in winter.

dries van noten. fall winter 2009.

wine on the street after midnight

i brought with me a bottle of wine,

a token that came with my bearing news

good grand news of adventures and the boats that will take me to them

we opened the bottle, poured and then

with joie de viver i opened my map of plans

you were less than pleased

and wondered why i had to go do such a thing

and alone

wondered why i couldn't spend summer in

the front rows of your shows

existing as your ultimate encourager

solely for you

wasn't it obvious i was a raging wind and

i need to sail and flicker out some lights make others bright

see with new sight

when you slammed the door

it was me between that and the street

i walked on it didn't matter even if you had written a song for eyes like oceans

the bottle minus the contents of two glassfuls

took its swan dive and the liquid left stains on the pavement

was that entirely necessary

you thought so it seemed

i was on the verge because that was my good news in that drink

i thought about soaking it up with the white hem of my dress

just to defy you in another unexpected fashion

it was a fruity full bodied melbec

wild raspberry on the nose

and i hated to see it wasted

but it was late so i walked back to brooklyn

i knew it would be a long walk form long island city

but i felt no challenge nothing hindering

spring was near maybe i would meet her along the way

i had broken the bracelet of us and felt free

maybe i'd sing and skip

and alone it would be

as it was meant

this was a night i walked to walk forever

like a journey on a train that you never want to end

never want to reach the destination 

seems odd for some but i like those blurry images

from the window passing to never stop them

words adorned with sails

their first kiss was witnessed by the Seine River carrying gondolas of street lamps

reflections in its spangled folds, carrying haloed street lamps flowering on the bushes of

black laquered cobblestones, carrying silver filigree trees opened like fans beyond whose

rim the river's eyes provoked them to hidden coquetries, carrying the humid scarfs of

fog and the sharp incense of roasted chestnuts.

everything fallen into the river and carried away except the balcony on which

they stood.

their kiss was accompanied by the street organ and it lasted the whole length of

the musical score of Carmen, and when it ended it was too late; they had drunk the

potion to its last drop.

the potion drunk by lovers is prepared by no one but themselves.

the potion is the sum of one's whole existence.

every word spoken in the past accumulated forms and colors in the self. what

flows through the veins besides blood is the distillation of every act committed, the

sediment of all the visions, wishes, dreams, and experiences. all the past emotions

converge to tint the skin and flavor the lips, to regulate the pulse and produce

crystals in the eyes.

the fascination exerted by one human being over another is not what he emits

of his personality at the present instant of encounter but a summation of his entire

being which gives off this powerful drug capturing the fancy and attachment.

no moment of charm without long roots in the past, no moment of charm

is born on bare soil, a careless accident of beauty, but is the sum of great sorrows,

growths, and efforts.

but love, the great narcotic, was the hothouse in which all the selves burst

into their fullest bloom...

love the great narcotic was the revealer in the alchemist's bottle rendering

visible the most untraceable substances

love the great narcotic was the agent provocateur exposing all the secret

selves to daylight

love the great narcotic lined fingertips with clairvoyance

pumped iridescence into the lungs for transcendental x-rays

printed new geographies in the lining of the eyes

adorned words with sails, ears with velvet mutes

and soon the balcony tipped their shadows into the river, too, so that

the kiss might be baptized in the holy waters of continuity.

taken from the four-chambered heart by anais nin

what a beautiful gift to find her at this moment.

it becomes more clear to me.

after three years

paul verlaine

pushing the narrow sagging gate aside,

i walked into the little garden-bower

which the sun, that morning, softly glorified,

bespangling with wet sparks the smallest flower.

nothing had changed. i saw it all: the humble

trellis of wild vine, the rattan chairs...

the fountain murmuring its silver air,

the old aspen everlasting atremble.

just as they used to be: the quivering rose,

the haughty lily on the wind-swayed stalk.

i still know every lark that comes and goes.

i found the Veleda standing even yet,

her plaster scaling, at the end of the walk

-gracile, in the dull scent of mignonette.

spring quartet

spring haikus:series of four by mario batali, borrowed from issue one of dossier journal

violin necks/

the fiddlehead ferns

swollen skyward yet higher

to ejaculate

low country caviar/

ramps verdant scent

with garlic and linguine

dust with breadcrumbs

michigan nonna/

morels lay so lo

hidden in frittata

spring antipasto

spring creek/

limpid pool so sheer

negligee for piscine forms

trout rise to surface

the knowing that the sea is behind the avenue with balconies and bicycles.

Barcelona, a city of perpetual yes-saying begs to be passionately consumed by its 

passengers. My heightened attraction is to experience eating and drinking things that 

really need to be eaten and drunk. Bottomless half filled sangria glasses, garlic and 

olive oil drenched prawns and echoes of laughter of past meals embody the fresh spice of 

Barcelona in a slice. In all its forms, spanish consumables make one feel fiery and alive 

and brings the possibilities of endless days and nights.