Blahg

WIll You Draw a Ptero for Me Please?

lunataylor — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 18:01:50 GMT

I know you may not have drawn something since 6th grade art class. I know it is a bit frightening to draw something from your heart. But I promise, it will be fun. Take a sheet of paper out of your printer tray and find a pen (or a pencil or a crayon or a calligraphy brush or a can of spray paint or whatever you want) and create a little pterodactyl. Then send it to my email address (pterobones@gmail.com) and I will publish it in the January Ptero Heart gallery. :-) Yay! http://www.pteroheart.com ___

The Ptero Concept

lunataylor — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:13:05 GMT

For the past few years I have been developing an idea. I will call it the Ptero Concept. It starts with my foundation in totem animals. Animals whose natural characteristics and mythologies I draw symbolically into myself to build my own strength of character. If you know me or have ever read any of my writing you’ve recognized the part in my heart played by the seahorse and the llama and the raccoon and the owl and the coyote and the shark and the otter and the bat and the snake and the longhorn cow...and of course, the pterodactyl. My ptero totem is about my emotional body. It is about the dramatic rise and fall of the bare bones of feelings. Darkness against lightness. It is about suicide or art. It is about using creations that capture the image of the heart, and using them as the membranes for wings, for feathers, to soar—rather than plummeting to a tragic death too fast and unfulfilled. I've decided to publish a journal about that which inspires me to soar. It will be about adventure, fascination, and the art that results from living life on this planet as vibrantly as can be mustered. Each month I will feature an artist whose work has inspired the pterodactyl in my heart. I hope you will follow me on this adventure. Check out this fun commercial I made: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7Ovtvtn6k4 Look for Ptero Heart on January 1, 2010 at http://www.lunataylor.com

Think pterodactyl.

lunataylor — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 02:30:52 GMT

__________ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sO97czbj4nE ___________ Luna Taylor dot Com January 2010

Ptero-Honor

lunataylor — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 02:57:39 GMT

Ptero Heart

lunataylor — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 06:19:06 GMT

http://www.lunataylor.com Adventure. Fascination. Art.

Four-twenty

lunataylor — Sun, 03 May 2009 11:20:22 GMT

A.M. 100th Tribe Blog.

My First Internet Nest Revamped

lunataylor — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 14:39:48 GMT

Taking back all my little spaces... http://www.lunataylor.com _

XOXO

lunataylor — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 21:01:18 GMT

I got a lot of love in my heart today :-) _

BLINDFOLD KINESIS

lunataylor — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 06:58:01 GMT

It is impossible for me not to miss you though

Notes on My Most Recent Failure

lunataylor — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 00:48:56 GMT

PRETTY MUCH I took all the music that reminds me of you Out of my iPod except for the voice of that loneliest-of-all girl Who sings of lost hawks, lone sparrows, foxes, and ferrets Who belonged to both of us before I came into your life I keep asking myself if I wish I would have never left those cute squirrels on your door Should I have never whispered lovingly to you through the pretty curtain lace of words The way I'm still doing now despite myself I'm trying very hard not to adore you I made unintelligent decisions about pretty much everything regarding you From the beginning I couldn't see over the scent of your body Should I have kept my soft lawn velvet arms closed? Probably. I don't know the answer You held me tightly as you frantically slept Kissing my pretty ears sweetly and squeezing me yet You never tried to get to know me You say you care about me but You only cared enough to ignore me, stand me up, and offer me the occasional pretty Lie You didn't even care enough to ever once ask me to play my guitar for you Live ____

Stepping out of the World of Bellydance

lunataylor — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 23:15:42 GMT

I posted this in the UNMATA tribe, but wanted to get it on my blog too: It's for the best! :-) Change happens to all of us right? Nature unfolds true nature. Worlds that were once small now seem big. Worlds that were once big now seem small. There are lots of reasons I'm leaving. I found myself quite sick when 2008 began (see the video of my last performance with UNMATA at Third Coast Tribal to just see how sick I was, I could barely stand up that weekend but I danced my heart out with as much sass as I could pull *anyway*). After years of overworking myself I wasn't able to keep up my physical or mental health anymore. And as you know, dance requires both! I'd gone through a breakup, my mom going through a stage 4 cancer (she's doing great by the way), and juggling my day job—in addition to my dancing, designing, and marketing duties with UNMATA. My hearing disability was also severely contributing to my stress quotient and I just needed to take darkness, space, and cover myself up in silence. At first I just wanted to take a leave of absence to rest, be silent, explore the “me” I'd lost, but then it became clear that I needed to move on from this creative circle and find my own path. I'll quote a Neko Case song that fits perfectly..."now my heart is green as weeds, grown to outlive their season." I'm on my own journey now, working for my vision, working for my heart, working for my health... and I am feeling healthier and healthier everyday! I am working on a couple of projects. I am writing a girl vs. nature (can you say bugs galore, wild boars, and flash floods) screenplay that takes place in the wilds of Texas Brush Country. And I am writing down everything about what I've learned and lost in the beautiful HOT POT and UNMATA communities! (except for your secrets which I DO KEEP forever, fyi) I absolutely cherish my time with UNMATA, Amy, Verbatim, Hot Pot, Raven, and the greater dance community. Thanks to those of you who have checked in on me and made sure I was doing ok. I have learned many skills and life lessons through this process, most importantly, to BE BRAVE ENOUGH TO BE YOURSELF—and risk your fate—no matter what anyone says about you to your face or behind your back. If you still love me and want to see what I'm up to, visit my profile now and then or drop me a line at pterobones@gmail.com Much much much much love! Smoke ‘em up smokies, and DANCE ‘til you're dead!

Velocity

lunataylor — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 06:54:44 GMT

__ Speed of light How fast you change one’s position Front group proper phase Different day same acceleration New mirrors Show new fears Which way and why and might it work? Hell no it won’t Just displaces Breaks you up with its razorbeak Scatters you into other places __

Viscosity

lunataylor — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 14:28:25 GMT

__ The path the course the flow whatever you wanna call it Goes— Drawing serpents in the sand Of an alluvial fan Thickens As it slows— __

Rejected!

lunataylor — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 00:22:48 GMT

Rejection Is a word sewn by thread Needled into my writerheart Seems hems surged A definition I know best One I try my best to earnestly reject To replace by digging my fingernails deep into the organ red flesh Of hope Perhaps One Day I will get my break A drawn and quartered heart to wear Bits of flesh Bits of blood Embedded in my hair I am tired of sewing my heart back together The character I’m writing The life in my 24 hour script Seeks relief More than love More than sleep Instead of just being broken up Broken down Broken into Broken bone splintered shattered trapped in a cast Complicated sprawling cell walls trying to heal rebuild fast Marrow of un-health seeping from today into tomorrow Osteoparalysis No Pandora for me today Draw symbols of the quartermoons of my drawn and quartered Affection How do I learn not to care? I submit (Reject!) I submit (Reject!) I submit reject submit reject submit I submit to rejection No more submission __

Not by Me

lunataylor — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 06:37:37 GMT

Tonight is a lonely night for me. I thought it would just be me hanging out with my packing boxes and stacks of writing research. Instead I was pleasantly surprised by visitors who showed up for dinner. I hung out in the hot kitchen and cooked on the hot griddle and my ears caught the cool bassy shadows of Johnny Cash in the other room and an occasional clue of good conversation from the hearts I hold dear. Then we ate quickly and everyone left like that. I have so many un-answers. So I wrote the next scene in my script of the lonely girl wondering alone in the moonlight brush country seeing things that are not what they seemed. I love this poem by Ted Hughes. This is my heart these days. Hearing the horizons endure. THE HORSES by TED HUGHES I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark. Evil air, a frost-making stillness, Not a leaf, not a bird- A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light. But the valleys were draining the darkness Till the moorline – blackening dregs of the brightening grey – Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses: Huge in the dense grey –ten together – Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move, With draped manes and tilted hind-hooves, Making no sound. I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head. Grey silent fragments Of a grey still world. I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge. The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence. Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun Orange, red, red erupted Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud, Shook the gulf open, showed blue, And the big planets hanging – I turned Stumbling in a fever of a dream, down towards The dark woods, from the kindling tops, And came the horses. There, still they stood, But now steaming, and glistening under the flow of light, Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves Stirring under a thaw while all around them The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound. Not one snorted or stamped, Their hung heads patient as the horizons, High over valleys, in the red levelling rays – In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces, May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews, Hearing the horizons endure.

I get to be me again.

lunataylor — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 22:20:46 GMT

I feel better already. _

Good Grief!

lunataylor — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 02:35:38 GMT

There are the most wonderful wonders surrounding me and yet me and my fucked up serotonin levels still insist on finding things to obsess to grief about. I find myself wanting so badly to be loved by impossibility. Why can’t I just be sufficiently thankful for everything and be happy and not get thrown so off-kilter about every little hitch? The wooden island in my kitchen alone is topped with A blue glass bowl filled with deep red cherries Bananas so greenfully knowing they will age perfectly throughout my granola week Gala apple picked by scent Organic heavy navel orange Handmade bowl glazed to match the four avocadoes it holds A big fat potato in a soft orange ceramic cup Pistachios, marconas, macadamias peaking through clear glass jars A clay dish with a ripe serrano, and fat green and a fat red jalapeño Tonight I am making rhubarb baked delights. I am cleaning my kitchen and trying hard to make everything open and willing to take light. I hope to take light. Light housekeeping. Light house. That feels natural but I supposed I did steal it from Jeanette Winterson. Oh god will I end up as grumpy as her? Dear neurotransmitter modulating my anger, aggressions/depressions, body temperature, moods, sexuality, appetite/metabolism, sleep patterns. Regulate already will you? Clean little bitch! That is what I tell myself right now. Become one. Be one. Do it. Get rid. Start kneading. Stop needing. Be smart. Shake out every little turd of art and write your freaking script. Collect less and fret less. Be the discoverer in the terrain of your own clutter. Stop with the DABDA! You.

Figure of the Earth

lunataylor — Fri, 23 May 2008 13:58:04 GMT

The Yámana natives of Cape Horn Sent smoke signals from hill tops To notify all witnessing eyes within the visual curve That the body of the whale Had washed ashore There was meat for all— But to hurry Hurry Before time Spoils

The Hag

lunataylor — Fri, 16 May 2008 08:35:03 GMT

The Hag in the mirror Grabs her tits Inspects her teeth Looks back and says It’ll only get worse, deary, As you grow old On the outside

Cosmic State of Mind Today...

lunataylor — Wed, 14 May 2008 19:53:23 GMT

The Harrow We lay together face up in the tilled Earth Hitched shotgun to Polaris Good drag on tonight’s galaxy path The soft disc-space between my One fallow leg-of- heart and my One fertile leg-of-mind Snags On the endless rows of teeth Embedded in the natter flesh one upon the other The immeasurable beauty Of space/star gates Opening The Universe is but a grievous mouth Visemes spitting phonemes A machine organized To break up solid ground To break up what? Matter Space transmits no sound “We feel goodness” Versus “Our feelings hurt us” Waves of Milky Way We lip-read We camera eye We subtitle We chatter We port pod fix fasten What matters happens What happens matters Air to breathe and air to listen We hear ourselves about to shatter Water/ice/Earth/soil conditions

Farmer's Market

lunataylor — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:33:56 GMT

On Sunday my friend and I went to the farmer’s market She on longboard Me on bike My bird friend is very tall and thin Covered in black ink birds that Whorl around her neck and land in the great outstretched arms Of a dead tree That covers her whole back and Distracts Constantly She wears a backless shirt As she normally wears We are all used to her… Skin Is just skin But here among the local Tomatoes Artichokes Strawberries She is not Apples and Oranges We are buying pistachios and asparagus tips when A bearded beer bellied man and his woman Decked in fashion fling bling Stand four inches from her and gawk They love it but they hate it Every eye that passes Loves it Takes a breath takes a sigh sees the size The permanence and they Love it, But Every eye that passes Struggles with her back Climbs the branches Parks beneath the birds One crumpled middle-aged lady says in these exact words: I’m not a tattoo person but That is Actually Pretty My friend says, You’d think I’d know more people in my life, But I don’t. This is the way the canvas feels.

I'd been so good.

lunataylor — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 00:41:52 GMT

I’d been so good. And then today it just all. There is the bridge I’ve built across that deep deadly ditch and today I stood in the middle of it and poured vial after vial of acid on the wood at my feet.

Naked/Phonograph/Trees

lunataylor — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 17:44:12 GMT

On a hot springtime day of the heart, I wondered out of school with my friends and we walked to the end of the sidewalk together, gave hugs, and went our separate ways. I walked my direction, past the gas stations and drive thru fast food towards Legacy drive, the gate of my burgeoning subdivision. I turned left. The road crossed a creek also serving as drainage ditch, the Texas kind of creek with silty clay banks and muddy eddies, and I took the steep barely-there grassy path down to the water. This was not the normal way I went. This was an experiment. I had no bookbag or cigarette with me that day. I sat down on the foot-high shelf bank and took off my shoes and rolled up my jeans above my knees and stepped into the water and let the mud sink between my toes. The air steamed in the dry dead grass and the new grass, both. This place smelled familiar. It smelled strong and good and bio-diverse. I wondered upcreek a short distance. I could see the eyes of kit-home gables peaking over up beyond the little wood of cedar elms. A spill of honeysuckle vines caught the sunshine on the bank and the mellow oranges and yellows of the blooms caught me up—but nonetheless, I was still in my neighborhood. My shoes were tied together by their strings and slung over my shoulder. I crossed into a shadowy part of the creek and stood in the shin-deep cool. Crawfish skittered over my toes. I crossed my wrists in front of me, reached to my sides, pulled my shirt up over my head, and tied my shirt to my shoestrings. On the opposite bank I saw the slither motion of a snake moving up through the skunkbrush. I thought maybe I’ll go up over there. I’d never been up the other bank. My neighborhood was the first to scar this bitty bit stretch of Texas, and though the other side has long since been manicured, at the time I was tromping around naked in this creek all that lay past the elms was a great expanse of wild sunflowers. Well. Until you reached the skeleton roads of the parallel subdevelopments-to-come, of course. I splashed water up onto my arms and moved from the shade into the light-soaked honeysuckle, turned my back to the sun, and slinked my shoulder blades out of my sportsbra, bared my breasts, took a deep breath, and turned my chest. Like a sure vibration, I felt the sun sink his teeth into my sternum. I climbed out of the water and bare-toed my way up the opposite bank into a little thicket of cedar elms. The ground here was dusty but the land was hidden from all pesky suburban gable eyes and, except for the twinkle of traffic in my ears, I was alone, in nature. I unbuttoned my jeans and let them fall to the ground. I piled everything else on top of them and then I wondered among the trees. I found treasure there. A giant trunk of old vinyl LPs and a crankshaft phonograph. I thumbed through the records and messed with the phonograph and it began to play. The timing was a merry-go-round. I played music while I played house. I hummed. I sang. I grabbed hold of hot branches as if they were legs, arms, neck, back. I climbed. Perhaps. I stayed too open and exposed too long—sunburn, bruise, insect-bite, blister, sun-tox. I’d wrapped my legs around a scratchy trunk that did not bend with my body when I thought it would. I didn’t mean to uproot it. It stunned-gunned me numb with its groundstrength so that I had to bow my head to my own heart. I sat and listened. And listened. But I did not hear. When the light began to set, I turned around and walked back across the creek and went home where I was safe again. But in my ribcage there is a record, spinning, off-time, magical—playing over and over my afternoon treasure in the hot neighboring woods.

Green and White Tacos with a Touch of Pink

lunataylor — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 05:10:33 GMT

Tonight after yoga I made avocado soft tacos in the following manner: 1. I rolled out the organic whole wheat tortilla and threw it onto the griddle. Then I began a playful OM… 2. I sliced a perfectly “ripe today” organic avocado in half and removed the seed, which I rolled around in my palms to soften my hands until the seed was shiny and clean and my hands were soft. 3. I saw a bubble forming in the tortilla so I flipped it. I began a more serious OM with a slight minor slide to it…. 4. I faced the avocado halves face down and removed the skin from one of them, cut it into cm thick longwise slices, saturated it in fresh lemon juice, sprinkled it with course pink lava salt…OM! Great time to lick your fingers. 5. The tortilla was done so I picked it up and threw it on a plate! Got out the organic expeller pressed vegenaise and gave the tortilla a small dollop and smeared. I licked the vegenaise spatula. I breathed. Silent OM here. 6. I love ICEBERG LETTUCE. http://www.kingstonmarketing.com/products/lettuce.php I love this under-appreciated by snobberfooders crunchy fresh delicious yummy scrumptious head of vegetation that should be devoured and loved wholeheartedly on any occasion. One of the most rewarding moments in life is to hold a head of iceberg and slice a wedge of it diagonally with a big sharp knife. Taste it plain! It is so tasty. It tastes like the goodness that reminds me of walking into a freshly plowed field. Err… I got out the lettuce and sliced part of its head off, then chopped it to shreds. 7. I spent a few minutes contemplating and plucking cilantro leaves from the bunch staying fresh in a cup on my counter and then I compiled my taco. The cross section would have looked like this: fresh tortilla, vegenaise, salty citrus avocado, finger-macerated cilantro, and iceberg lettuce. Green and white with a touch of pink. Like springtime in Sacramento. 8. I sat on my floor and ate my taco and Zenned out. Then I repeated the whole process. There was also a cup of fresh grapefruit juice and chunk of dark chocolate in there, both of which summoned a sea of OMs…

Ode To Exes

lunataylor — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 23:22:35 GMT

Today I’ve been strumming madly bluely at my guitar. I feel desperate. I want to find that old song that I wrote in the library of my soul. I know it is still in there. It’s a good song. It is one of the last songs I wrote before I stopped playing and writing all together. Which is another sad story. But I’m changing courses... Boots and prairie and coyote and beer and blues and guitars and humid Hill Country heat and other things worth appreciating. True story. A country song about Texas. About a Texan. About my Ex. My love that I have been slowly letting into the wind due to that sticky time/space fact. No food being fed to my ever-hungry mouth, no baby-bird nutrition. No new vitamins. No new chemicals for me to process and make my own. And so exes fade away. They aren’t in your present moment anymore. But do you love them any less? No. That’s why you wrote the song about them in the first place. Sometimes I feel I cook a rich meal of myself and serve it on a rich steaming plate. Here you go, here I am, take, eat, digest, feel me seep into your soul, up out through your pores. So I salivate, where is my dessert? Why do I need so much attention. Why do I always need a response? Living in the moment lately, or at least trying to. But. I’m a writer, a rememberer, a historian, a noticer, a hungry hungry soul. Who can feed me? Feed me who you are now? You love me still, I know. But. In this moment—in my mouth—I’ve lost you to the gullet. “Food is the vessel of Life. Because Life is another name for God, food could be called ‘the vessel of God.’ If you truly respect and revere the Spirit, then shouldn’t the first thing you do be to build a shrine within your own body?” —Eiwan Ishida, Genmai (Tokyo: Japan Pub. 1989) Through my Lent I controlled my food. I controlled my body. I’m not good at controlling anything, especially myself. Me: A lost spirit in the “now,” so this Lent was an excellent lesson. Through controlling what I put into this vessel, I learned about what I want and don’t want to put into this vessel. What I want is the magic food which is to know all the parts to a whole. I memorized a Bible verse in school as a child, “What? Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, who is in you, who ye have of God, and ye are not your own?” Well, in some ways I am my own because I hold the fork. And I am banging it loudly on the Universe right now and holding it to my teeth and listening to hear the tune while I am still able to make out the sound. I don’t want to starve anymore. I need input. I need wise passion. I need truth. TODAY. I’m hungry for this song. When I was writing it I was crying for your skin and you were one room away. When I was writing it I knew we could devour each other in any moment. I’m hungry for the way we felt when we first were joined, so fueled about the things we both reveled in and the connections we made and the way we world-shaped. How could it have gone so wrong? How can new passion seep in and take us away from each other? What a bellyache about which to sing rhythm and blues with a country twang…Sigh Sugah! Once I love I always love. I love every cell. I am passionately overwhelmed with your very existence. Maybe that is what is so scary about me. Maybe that is why I shouldn’t try. Maybe I am playing too dangerously. Maybe I should write for myself, strum for myself, click my heels for myself. Maybe I should cook for myself solo. Alone. Because I will take you and make art of you and you’ll always exist in the immortal pantry of my heart.