sometimes, we get lucky. sometimes everything is ok.

Walking through the crumbling museum district today, on a crazed search for coffee in perfect temperatures and golden sunlight filtering through the lush growth of monument avenue... I've found the best cup of coffee in Richmond, at a weird, shifty corner, across from a 7-11. Nothing makes one's day better than being handed a beautiful cup of coffee with a delicate creamy foam flower floating on it in perfect shades of pale mocha and rich browns. I forgot to worry about the dingy atmosphere, cause it took me back to a memory much preferred:

I was in the young professional quarter of Washington D.C. a few months ago, on a road trip from LBI to Richmond, crashing overnight with a friend and her roommates. She doesn't shave anything, doesn't feel the need to, wears loose fitting thrift store finds, and has an obvious chest tattoo that escapes delicately out of her shirt. Everyday she rides her bike to work at a government office dealing with green design and environmental technology... I think she edits descriptions of the stuff that goes on, or something along those lines. She is hysterical, and it excites me to no end that our government is becoming progressive enough to accept nontraditional individuals into their workforce. She directed me and my travel buddy to a coffeehouse on our way out of town, before she pedaled off into the morning fog. We pulled up to a shack. A shack where we were heckled by a homeless person across the street as we walked up warped boards through a door... And it was heaven inside. An ocean of warm, shining mahogany flooded with morning sun, large white coffee cups all with intricate floating designs atop fresh brewed espresso. And we were the only ones there who weren't sporting a security badge on our hips. What a seductive, titillating atmosphere.

On my walk back to the apartment in Richmond, I walked past a jam session of the jazz kind, pouring out of an ancient row house, took a breath, smiled into my coffee and felt like all was right in my world.

you and me should be friends.

tried the whole theatre thing, found the politics and the passions not to my liking. I come from a more subtle background, one where i was expected to be more conceptual than workhorse. let's just say i wouldn't recommend summer stock. so after having my fill of fake cowboys elusive responsibilities, i find myself here, in richmond, modeling for the virginia commonweath university whilst i reach out my feelers and see what this art scene has to offer me. Residing in a beautifully ancient apartment in the crumbling outskirts of the fan district which has since become the student ghetto, i find myself in a bizarre time warp where i am still running on school time, meeting with teachers, walking into clssroom studios...

My first class was sculpture, something that was never really explored in my undergrad due to its... personal interperative nature. a tiny room, stands on casters, the 9 students and professor circled me, never more than a yard from the small square i stood on in the middle of the room. if for some reason there was a blemish on my backside, or potential wiff of sweat from booking it across town midday in overwhelming heat, well, they were well aquainted with it all, i assure you.

i enjoyed it.

and i tried to keep my inner critiques just where they were, inside of me.