"At the Moulin Rouge" by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

NOTE: CLICK ON THE PICTURE TO SEE THE FULL VIEW. I'm having some formatting issues. So, to see the whole painting, you have to click on it I think.

I have to start with this painting just because it's one I'm partial to. I like Toulouse-Lautrec in general, but especially this painting. He painted it a few years after the Moulin Rouge opened in Paris. (Painted between 1892-1895, and Moulin opened in 1889).

Just some interesting facts:

-The Moulin Rouge was called that because of the red windmill on its rooftop.

-Toulouse was crippled. He portrayed himself in this painting. If you start with the blue-faced woman and count to the third man behind her in that sort of diagonal line (a technique often used to create a feeling of chaos) that is him. He was probably not sitting down. That's how short he was. He spent a lot of time in brothels with prostitutes because he didn't have much luck with the ladies. His paintings of these brothels are some of very favorites. It's so cool to see portrayals of prostitutes that were done with a loving hand by a person who saw himself as being on their same level, for once.

-The artistic style of this painting is Post-Impressionist and Expressionist.

-The redhead fixing her hair in the background is La Goulue (the glutton), the star of the Moulin Rouge. She is such an interesting person to me because she was this incredibly talented, enigmatic dancer in her prime who ended up becoming an alcoholic selling cigarettes outside the Moulin Rouge until her death--unrecognizable by the general public.

That's all I'll say about this, being that I don't want these little summaries to go too long. I hope anyone who reads this finds it interesting and is hopefully inspired in some way. That is the whole point. :)

rain. damn.

i knew i shouldn't be texting him, but i said i couldn't believe i was spending my first rainy night in my new place without him. (i am learning that i say too much) (right now even, as i type).

that first night we spent together, it was raining and we sat on a blanket by the open sliding glass door, the screen was shut, and we listened to it rain and watched. it was so simple. i asked him before i joined him on the floor. there is a reason cliches are cliches.

and we laid down together. and i rubbed his back until he fell asleep. like a little boy. me, a mother. the one he didn't have.

he was so sad.

and then i went to my bed and slept alone like i always had.

and a few nights later, i would begin to forget what that was like altogether.

and on june 25, 2010, very late at night. i'm eating crackers to soak up the wine in my stomach and i want to cry. wait i just did. i cried. again. i'm so very very sick of crying. the prozac, what does it even do already? it doesn't even work anymore... already. i'm sick of crying in my car, in the bathroom at work, on my couch when king of the hill comes on, at the gym listening to that music. our music. "let me in, can i get a? i know you gonna let me shine and get mine, i'm the king, how you gonna act like that? etc etc etc" but what really gets to me, we all know the words, "i don't believe that anybody feels the way i do about you now. and all the roads we have to walk are winding. and all the lights that lead us there are blinding. there are many things that i would like to say to you, but i don't know how. because maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me. and after all, you're my wonderwall."

our song. a million songs are ours, but this is really our song. two pisces. i'll never do it again.

and i'll cry and go to sleep.

and he will never call.

and one day i'm supposed to be happy that i told him not to last night.

idea

i was thinking of turning this blog into a sort of art appreciation blog. since i'm taking modern art this summer for the rest of this month, maybe i could post interesting things i learn. would anyone like to read about that kind of thing? instead of my vague relationship drama or clothing trends?

that moon.

the first times i crossed the grass into the road, past the road and onto the sidewalk leading to his place, i couldn't help but notice the moon.

it was shining. it was watching me.

i crossed the grass in front of the steps that led to the door and went in quickly, quietly. that moon was watching and it disapproved--its cheese face pale and watery like egg whites. the moon, one big eye, staring at me. but once i was inside the moon couldn't see. it couldn't hear us.

i've loved the moon, but lately i'm not so sure. sometimes one doesn't want to be looked at.

that moon. the name cynthia means moon goddess. i am a moon goddess when... how does that song go... when i'm on my knees. what does the name holly mean anyway? it's just a tree. i'm the entire moon. if it wasn't for me reflecting sunlight, he wouldn't even see her in the dark.

last night, as i crossed the grass, the sidewalks and road, i looked at the moon. "i didn't do anything," i told it. for a moment i thought i saw it flicker.

when i got to my room, i slept like the dead.

the things i kept:

a pair of his socks. i wear them sometimes, though i don't know why.

four of his white undershirts. i wear these, too. it makes me feel like i've won something.

one gray shirt i gave him. it made me feel better to take it back.

the diamonds and amethyst necklace he gave me, though i don't wear it anymore. i was crying when i took it off for the first time and he asked why. i told him it didn't work because he had told me it would protect my heart. i plan to wear it again someday, regardless. just not yet.

pictures of him. since i live alone, i have them up. everywhere. i like the ghosts, they keep me company.

the boxing glove keychains.

his old boxing gloves. i haven't had the nerve to try them on yet. i'll keep them for his children.

his engagement ring. i'll keep it for his wife.

koda's hair on my purple chair. i could clean it off, but choose not to.

his family contacts. i wrote to his grams yesterday.

a piece of lingerie i never had the nerve to wear.

open space.

time that stops.

sleepless nights.

a reoccurring dream where there's always water, so much water, a cat, and tiny cakes. i eat them all and she has none.

The beginning and end of a story I worked on this semester called "Pecos River"

The beginning:

By February, Cindy had lost her sense of humor. She was twenty-five and having her first break-up with her only love. She was on the highway back to her hometown, Carlsbad--a slow and brightly-lighted town full of Mexicans and cowboys and Mexican cowboys, a town that smelled of creosote in the morning, whose lament was made of mourning doves and creaking pecan branches. A modest river, the Pecos, crept through this place.

She grew up in a blue house next to the river which brought her many offerings. Her first vision of death was a rotting carp that baked in the grass. Her second vision was a bloated goose. When she was nine, she did not see it, but the Pecos offered a dead human body near the Bataan Bridge, according to her parents’ morning conversation one day. This river offered coins and rusted cans, a tire, a shopping cart, mosquitos, slimy bottles, and once when she rode her bike into the water, it offered back a young girl and her bicycle. This was her first and only attempt at suicide. It was the first of three waves of depression Cindy would have in her life. She was eleven.

The end:

The Pecos River really put on a show this time of day. At Lower Tansill Dam, the sun was setting as she parked her car and got out. The sky was cotton candy. It was fire. It was water and the river was the sky. They reflected onto each other in a great display of rainbow sherbet colors. Cindy began to jog along the bank of the river. She was almost to the Bataan Bridge when she spotted it. Her spirit was gliding in and out of the water. It had turned almost completely into water itself and wore a necklace of old bottles, rusted coins and fishbones around its neck. Cindy stopped and watched for a moment. It saw her watching and curled its scaly fingers at her. She smiled and decided to jog back to her car. It was time to meet her friend for dinner. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would get a hold of her spirit, but Cindy knew she wouldn’t leave this town again with out it.

1.

i am not quite there exactly, but i'm busily preparing the way for a new start.

i feel power coming back to me.

but this time around, i am more careful, a little wary, and humble for sure--but most importantly, fearless.

Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once