It's another hard to see word, but Adam wrote "fuerza!" on my neck. I didn't see it until the photo came out. I met him at a Theatre Action Project audition. He was wearing a Mechista T-shirt and talked about some great things. I went up to him afterwards and he wrote "Fuerza".
Gracias.

She was handing out coupons for Kotex and Viva paper towels. I took one and asked her to write on my arm.

"Oh. Okay."

Connie wrote "Dios es amor"

She returned the marker with a huge grin. I thanked her and moved on, coupons in hand. Words on my arm.

I was standing in line...at the check out. I swear I don't always go to the supermarket to get a word, but I just happened to be there yesterday getting the ingredients for a sancocho. Sancocho is a stew - I make it with lots of roots and meats and seasonings. Mark was standing behind me and so I asked him if he'd like to write a word.

"Okay."

and he wrote "Health".

"Thank you." I said.

"Yes. So you're a writer?"

"Umhmm. Fiction and poetry."

"That's very nice."

"I enjoy it."

I paused to look at the Star headline. Supposedly Brad Pitt is suggesting to Angelina that she go to rehab for her weight loss problem? What? Mark was checking me out from head to toe - I'm sure because I have this mohawk and have just asked him to write on my arm. So, I turned to him and asked:

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from here, but I grew up in West Africa."

"Oh - I grew up in Nairobi."

"I hear Nairobi is very nice."

"I enjoyed it, but you know I was growing up there."

"Yes. I've wanted to go to Nairobi but haven't had the opportunity."

"I've wanted to go to West Africa, but haven't had the opportunity either."

"Yes."

The woman behind the check out was finished ringing up all the ingredients.

"Have a nice night."

"You, too."

Czarina's in town visiting. I asked her to write a word on me this morning and she asked if she could have a minute to think.

10 hours later, we got back to business. I asked her again.

"Yes! It's a simple word."

"That's cool."

"I want to write it on your waist."

I got the correct side of my shirt up and she wrote "MOVE" in big letters. Right on my waist.

Very cool. She's into dancing and movement and movements...Then she said

"It felt so familiar to write that word. And then I realized I used to make posters with that word all the time."

Cellular memory. Translated. Onto the body

Tonight I was at the Macondo reading at the Esperanza Center. A great group of Macondo writers read their stuff. Joy Harjo played her sax and read her poems and the world looked new again. I have her book "A Map to the Next World", which I read. A lot. And so I went up to her and asked her to sign it. And then, I asked her if she wanted to write a word on me. She looked at me kinda like "is that really what's going on?", but agreed to do it after I showed her "drink" on my right arm. I mean - I just met her. Just like I meet people on the street. Only the set up is different:

Young author/Joy Harjo
Random person coming up to author's table/Author sitting behind table
Writing in books/Writing on bodies

I'm not one who is usually star struck. Half the time I'm sticking my foot way into my mouth and don't even realize that I'm supposed to be star struck. But...I have to admit...I was a little star struck. I mean, really, all I wanted to do was kick back and have some cold water and a great conversation. But it was a reading (refer back to set up discussion above).

So anyway. She agrees to write a word, and she rights "joy" on my left arm.

"Kinda obvious, I know. But hey."

"Yeah - that's awesome. Thanks!"

Awkward moment.

"It was great to meet you. Thanks again."

"Sure."

And onto the next person. I wandered into the crowd, watched from afar for a minute and then Wura and I wandered downstairs to the exhibit where she had spotted this really great piece titled "Willie Ninja (Hot)" by J. Garrett Marmando. And I knew. This was where the photo had to take place. Hot.

Oh - yeah - I also finally went out and bought some Polaroid film. FINALLY.

Andy August 2, 2007

So, I came home early and was resting. I figured I would go out into the street and find someone by the bus stop or in the neighborhood. But I was so rested, that I didn't get out until 2.30am when my friend L. called - locked out of her apartment and needing a place to stay. So, I hauled my butt out of bed and drove over to pick her up, sharpie in hand.

And, how incredible is this, just as I pulled up to get her, Andy was walking by. We don't know where Andy was going or coming from at that hour, but that's irrelevant. He was perfectly content to walk up the hill by himself at 2.30 in the morning. And I mean - what was I doing? So, I stopped him.

"Excuse me!" my voice boomed through the dark.

He turned and stared.

"Would you like to write a word on my arm?" No introduction, no "Hi, I'm a writer..." It was 2.30am, people.

"Sure. Hmm..." He took the sharpie from my hand.

"What word shall I write? I know - drink. Like what it says on your T-shirt."

My T-shirt, which is well broken in, says `Drink Cultura'. You know how those T-shirts riffing off of commercial brands were HUGE in the 90s and early 00s. Yup. That's mine (I also used to have one that read "All Temperature Queer" but I got rid of it when it faded); old, worn in and still one of my faves.

So we stood in the half light of the street lamp and Andy wrote "drink" on my arm. I thanked him and he smiled.

"Sure!" and stridently disappeared into the night.

Meanwhile, L. was working on getting her bike into the trunk of the car. Eventually, she did. It all worked out perfectly.

Derek August 1, 2007

"Cause I always forget things." Awesome word, Derek.

I needed to forget a few things today. You know when you have those days? Today was one. I needed to forget that moment when I leaned down under a metal bin and then stood straight up and bumped my head. And I needed to forget a couple of really awful comments that I heard floating in the air.

A word like forget makes me feel philisophical. Like what do we choose to forget and remember? As a people, cultures and societies, what do we forget and remember? What has been forgotten and what does our memory hold despite what's been omitted?

I remember (ha! see - memory in process) this sub-plot in Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver, when the main character (I forgot her name and have had to go look it up) Codi Noline remembers having seen her mother's death. But everyone, all the adults in her life, insist on telling her that she was not there that day. Because I don't want to ruin the story, I won't say what happens, but let's just say: her memory of her mother's death becomes critical to revealing truths about her life that she had been unaware of.

And how do we quantify or qualify memory? Where does truth really lie?

See - it does make me feel philisophical. And, I need to go sleep some more. So, I'm off to dream - and hopefully, remember my dreams.