Frida

The movie, like the artist, is vivid, raw, poetic. My favorite verses: Frida's love letter to Diego and the speech Diego gave at Frida's opening show in Mexico.

On a postcard to Diego:
Dear Diego,
How are you, panzon?
Why didn' you tell me Paris was such a nightmare?
The French are the most pretentious bores in the world
I'd rather sit on the floor of a market in Toluca
selling tortillas than have to listen to the prattling
of the artistic bitches of Paris.
There really hasn't been as much interest
in the exhibition as Breton promised.
Mexican artists are nothing but an exotic curiosity here.
All in all, it's been lonely
and I crave news from home.
Diego, this letter's a lie.
Paris has been good to me,
but without you, it means nothing.
All the rage of our 12 years together passes through me,
and I'm left knowing that I love you more than my own skin.
And though you may not love me as much,
you do love me a little,
don't you?
If this is not true,
I'll always be hopeful that it could be.
I adore you.
Frida.


Diego at her exhibition:
There was this skinny kid with these eyebrows shouting up at me, "Diego, I want to show you my paintings!" But of course, she made me come down to look . I did, and I've never stopped looking. But I want to speak about Frida not as her husband, but as an artist. I admire her.

Her work is acid and tender
hard as steel
and fine as a butterfly's wing
loveable as a smile
cruel as the bitterness of life.
I don't believe that ever before
has a woman put such agonized
poetry on canvas.


For the moment, these are holding my eyes captive, and wouldn't doubt that they will arrest my dreams tonight as well:

poop

Brandy & I stealthy entered the Marriott to lounge on their section of A-Bay. We had a great time reclining alongside sunburnt tourists and pretending to be rich! The hotel and beach were beautiful, but also quite disgusting. I'm not just saying that because everything, including our presence, seemed so artificial and rehearsed. You see, on the way back to the car, as we climbed the carpeted staircase that leads to the glorious lobby, the bellhops warned us of The Shit. Each of the last few steps boasted a droplet of doodoo, and then on the landing, BAM! A pile of crap. The irony sent us giggling. Who would do such a thing? A subversive anticapitalist? A jealous local like myself? A spoiled tourist whose money allows him to relieve himself wherever suits him? A baby with ample ammunition? Whoever you are, I applaud you for having the balls to poop on the plush carpet of a five-star hotel. Oh, I'm kidding. LMAO!!


a fancy mirror at the Marriott


Queen K

new camera

Since my old camera has a broken screen and grains of sand jammed into its crevices, I splurged and got a new one, Nikon this time. Tested it today on the drive home, then at Brandy's during our collage session. We're making a scrapbook for Giezel to take with her to optometry school!