Photography - Michele Mattei

The photography of Michele Mattei


Remember in OUT OF AFRICA, when Karen Blixen sits at table with Denys Finch Hatton and Berkeley Cole, and tells the story of a woman who walked out on a beach so white...

well, here is the flip side,

a black that is so black...
a black that is drawn from a Lee Bontecou hole, a Courbet hole. Velvet black, pitch black, coal black, complete black.

Michele Mattei has transcended black in the background of her flower. It is the black that makes the white so very white, the green so very green, a green that takes me away to a soft shore on that Karen Blixen beach, to a meadow filled with blue bells in an English countryside, to the beauty, beauty, beauty in the corners of my mind.
The flower. The meditation.

Michele's exquisite photographs of flowers, artists, beauty, portraits are not to be missed.
Go to her website and experience her art.

http://michelemattei.net/

Poetry - Today - Kathleen Matson Blurock

Today


Up late, stiff arms
celebrate, false starts
run brush, through hair
stop to look, despair
forget that, keep on
grocery store, set alarm
goes off, in my head
must have been what she said

Off in a dream it's only a stoplight
off in a dream only a school
off in a dream remembering night life
off in a dream those nights in the pool

Rush around, all day
feel the burn my way
try to rest, no luck
burned the roast, life sucks
Children scream, at what I said
children scream, put to bed
Cat lies in my lap
book read, hear the snap
firelight flickers on
not too long I'll be gone.

Poetry - "Ruby" - Kathleen Matson

Ruby

I is Ruby,
daughter of Eina,
my Mother so wise,
wise as a queen
when she smile
there is light all around,
spotlight of light
that grows and gathers up
all the boys and girls.

My Mother so strong,
strong as they ox
who pulls the wagon.

My Mother so fair
so fair, not county fair,
but fair in dealn
and all folks know that.

My Mother cook the dinner
balance the baby
love my Daddy
feed her Momma
kiss her Papa
sit alone in a chair
in her room,
eyes closed,
lips in a smile
she far far away,
happy away,
she rockn herself in lavender,
don't mind the honeybees,
butterfly stop at her shoulder.
she go somewhere she love,
walk thru daisies,
gaze at mountains,
stoop down to drink our Lord's nectar from the stream.

I can't come.
I stay here,
stir the pot,
rock the baby,
wait for Mother,
my Mother,
like honey drippin in love.

She is my Mama
I play at school
go home to her at night
go home to sunlight
and fresh air
and cherry pie
and tickled funny bone
following me up to bed,
and she wrap me,
and sit by my side
and turn out a light
to point to a star
through the window
she tell me is
my star, to watch me
all night and dust down
a secret love
on Ruby, contented mind
she tell me,
my Mama tell me,
my Mama wise and strong.
my Mama bathed in sunlight,
spotlight of light
that grows and gathers up
all the boys and girls.

Charles Bukowski - Poetry

air and light and time and space  


"you know, I've either had a family, a job, something 
has always been in the 
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this 
place, a large studio, you should see the space 
and the light. 
 for the first time in my life I"m going to have a place and the time to 
create."


no, baby, if you're going to create 
you're going to create whether you work 
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or 
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children 
while you're on 
welfare, 
you're going to create with part of your mind and your 
body blown 
away, 
you're going to create blind
crippled 
demented, 
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your 
back while 
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment, 
flood and fire. 


baby, air and light and time and space 
have nothing to do with it 
and don't create anything 
except maybe a longer life to find 
new excuses 
for.                                          - Charles Bukowski 
                                                            THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS
I tell myself to remember this, always.

My best LA: Flea Market

Santa Monica Flea Market at the Santa Monica Airport
1st & 4th Sunday's of the month:

Last time someone was selling a plethora of empty Hermes boxes, an unlikely sight, one I had never witnessed, and of course if you have any Hermes scarves without a box, here was your chance to get one.

Along with that comes vintage shoes, cashmere sweaters, french mirrors encrusted with roses, books, cutlery, china, shoes and more shoes, beds, paintings, jewellery, need I go on? You get the picture.

Make sure you take bags, and a hat, and a sweater. You never know if it is going to be hot or cold.