xo, doni

Photo

Sat, 21 Apr 2012 16:32:03 -0300

my head weighs a ton

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 09:11:00 -0300

im a little down. ish just ain’t working out.

i do have a roof over my head (a gorgeous one at that), beans to eat (good for the heart), and my right mind, yadda yadda yadda…

but i know there is more in store. and i want it out of storage.

whenever i get like this, it becomes physically recognizable without me recognizing. and when i would walk the streets in harlem, brothers would always say things like “smile, sis”, or “it can’t be that bad, get ya head up”, or slick one-liners that made me laugh.

when my mom was dying, and i could tell her life was coming to an end, i found myself wanting her to tell me everything like there was no tomorrow. tell me every lesson she learned in her life. everything i would need to know for all of my future ages without her around to say, “when i was your age.”

i wanted her to tell me everything she was feeling. what it felt like to ingest poison as a cure. if she was scared. when she slept, did she see god now? did god look like her?

but my mom was not really the type to open up like that.

her last words to me ended up being, “keep your head up”.

and i remember feeling a little disappointed. my philosophic inheritance was a cliche?

today i was walking down the street in Rio but my mind was elsewhere. it had just turned dusk and folks were already parked at their favorite bars with their favorite beer. and i was decidedly outside of the frivolity in the air.

a older man projected his voice unmistakably in my direction. i looked up from my flip- flops. ” something, something, sim, isso—yes, that’s it, smile.” i don’t know what he said exactly, but i know the translation for what he meant is keep your head up.

i’ve come to see these moments as my mom playing patrick swayze/whoopi goldberg in ghost. speaking through other people. chiming in from the unknown to say stop looking so down, because you are missing IT.

and i have thought about this a lot. keep your head up being the last words of the most important woman in my life, has added extra weight to what was once a passing phrase to me. i have thought about when you lift your head, you’re automatically aligning your head with your heart, physically.

how your head is so important, it controls the direction of the rest of your body, not just because it’s your brain’s headquarters, but your actual head is like a joy stick for your body. if you tilt your head right your body natural shifts a little more right, if you tilt it left…

and similarly your ears, mouth, and eyes—your vision are all within your head. if you hear something from the left your head turns left. if you are driving, and something catches your eye on the right, your body steers the car to the right a little.

my mom wasn’t necessarily saying all this. my mom was more raw, more gut, more tupac than earth wind and fire. but for me a this reminder, is a call for mind over matter. keep your head up, lifted, light, clear—your body will follow suit. focus on what really matters right now, your life will follow suit.

for today, it means do not bury my head down and wither into myself. look around me and give thanks. thanks for food. thanks for shelter. thanks for sound mind, yes. but also thanks for beauty. thanks for Rio. thanks for joy. thanks for laughter. connect. look up. engage with people on the street. accept an invitation to have a beer at a sidewalk bar. because what i am really seeking is not what i’m worrying about- a partner, or a job, or money —it’s to connect. partners and jobs and money are what we use to connect to others and to a higher sense of purpose. but not what we NEED to connect. when we think about it we have everything we need at all times without exception.

what we NEED in order to connect, is simply to connect. if we don’t we can hang our heads and miss all of IT. and the IT is life. my mom’s other favorite cliche was, life is too short. she was a eat dessert first, wear christmas presents soon after opening kind of woman. whose life, in my opinion anyway, was indeed too short. she did not bestow philosophic jewels upon me, or even neatly packaged parables or theatrical Huxtable lessons (though growing up, i would’ve traded places with rudy any day—she never got a whoopin!). but my mom lived her life. and she left me this. and a worldwide network of headlifters.

xo,

doni

p.s. another hit of tupac for the road “if you have a name that no one else has, you have to repeat it twice, you have to say it with extra feeling the second time. it builds character. so, you know, that’s why my momma gave it to me.” (idk about sidewalks and beer bottles=hardcore)

you can never meet the same rio twice

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 11:09:00 -0400

now that i’m traveling again. i’m writing again.

it’s funny to read my first post, and see how i kinda missed home when i left. this time when i left, i was beyond ready to leave.

home was not the same when i was there.

some things good, some whack. ‘real whack’.

but that’s the thing about home. you can never really go back. everyone who has ever left, knows this.

by the time you go back, you’re not the same person. neither are the people that you left back home. and nor is the physical place.

time changes things.

i did an art piece on this concept at usc after reading siddartha for the first time. there was a line in the book that struck me: ‘no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man..’

native americans have this saying as well: ‘you can never meet the same river twice.’

when i left rio, i wasn’t certain that i would ever come back.

my friends said, if it rains when you leave brazil, the country is crying for you and you will back. when i left rio, it rained. i took it as i sign that i would be back at some point, but who knew when.

when is now. almost half a year later.

and rio is still beautiful, of course, but different. i think the city is like a model that was beautiful their whole life, but didn’t realize it until a modeling agency told them so. and begins to refer to their childhood as their ugly years. now that the country- this city especially- is on the world’s stage, it’s acting all brand new.

i am back and some of my friends live in different places- pushed out and priced out of their neighborhoods. everything from the buses and trains to milk have increased in price. (similar to the us—but we’re on an economic decline, while they are supposed to be experiencing the opposite).

admittedly, im also different. i have my own networks now. i speak more portuguese than when i last came. my friends and i all have more numbers in our roledexs-dates, boo thangs, boyfriends, and jump offs- and less time for each other. i’ve found out that i have fibroids, and am trying to do everything possible not to aggrevate them - including drinking (so no more caipirinhas). and obviously, knowing a little about a place makes you navigate it a little differently.

mostly, i’ve been changed by time. even such a small amount of time.

but i agree that change is good.

and i look forward to what the river will bring.

[a nice alternative to a clammy office and a couch! xo,...

Sat, 03 Sep 2011 10:53:55 -0300

[a nice alternative to a clammy office and a couch! xo, doni]

euralmanac:

In Germany, niche getaways offer recovery from heartbreak

Trips designed for single travellers are no new concept, but what about trips specifically for the newly-single? In Germany, Die Liebeskuemmerer are catering for the heartbroken with getaways designed to help recovery from recent break-ups, with their team of therapists, nutritionists and fitness coaches.

Similar to Reise Ins Leben — organizers of group trips for those grieving the loss of a loved one — Berlin-based Die Liebeskuemmerer create getaways for groups of six to eight people. They believe this builds a community for “sharing, mutual understanding and strengthening”, as well as forming a new network of supportive friends for after the trip is over. The getaways, lasting four to seven days, are aimed at everyone “in the same boat”, both young and elderly, women and men, of any sexual-orientation, to help them back on their feet.

Supported by experienced psychologists, psychotherapists, health and styling coaches, participants are given “space to breath, relax and think about what has happened”. Organized getaways range from remote cottages by the sea to wellness resorts and retreats to the mountains, and for those needing an instant escape, custom trips can be arranged.

Prices vary depending on the trip, but previous getaways have cost the heartbroken traveler EUR 1450 for four nights. (via Springwise)

Photo

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 18:52:22 -0300

makelovetothemoon: By christian stoll

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 18:49:47 -0300

makelovetothemoon:

By christian stoll

Gangs of NY

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 17:21:00 -0300

new york makes me feel like i’m a part of a mafia of 8 million people.

i love this island. it’s just a part of me. but it’s not a tropical paradise. new york is not a push over. and doesn’t make herself easy. she’s a promiscuous chick with a chastity belt. fast but world wise.

a land of hard rocks hiding diamonds.

this is why one connects with others that endure the initiation process. that get jumped in with you. that know that beneath the scars and bumps and cracks in her skin is real beauty and opportunity. my new york family is supportive yet holds me accountable. coming back and reconnecting with nyc and my my nyc fam reminds me of who i am and what i’m capable of. so much inspiration comes to me from my crew as we run this city.

oh new york! she is the world’s oyster. you can have a bite, but she will cost you.

and you will spend your last cent. you will pay in your tears, in your sweat, and your blood. but she is worth every bit plus even more. and once you do, new york is a part of you for life. you and all your blood brothers and sisters.

blood in, blood out.

concrete jungle: humongous caterpillar!

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:19:00 -0300

my backyard, santa teresa, rio de janeiro

parte três: and now...

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 11:39:00 -0300

i still don’t even feel totally comfortable walking around during the day. the next day i had to work, but i didn’t even want to leave the house. what would i do if i saw him again? i googled “what to do after you’ve been robbed.” when do you start to feel yourself again? how? i read the story of a women who worked as a taxi cab driver after her company closed. she had two children, needed to work again quickly and this was one of the few options in her small town. she was robbed in the cab at gunpoint. she said she had the same “bad feeling before it happened”. she had mase in the car but wasn’t thinking about this at the time. she felt like she just needed to do what she needed to do to stay alive. she totally complied with her attackers.

and it’s like that. you prep yourself for the moment when something like this happens, but when it does you never know what you will do. i always thought i would yell fire if i thought i was about to be raped. didn’t think about this (not that most people would’ve understood the word fire in the area i was in). and i always thought if someone were robbing me i would just hand my belongings over, because they “aren’t worth it”. but my primal reaction was to run after them like a madwomen.

i have to go to work. i have very little cash in my place. i usually spend about 20 bucks a day going to work alone. i’d called my bank and cancelled everything, but i had no real back up for if something like this happened.

more than anything i didn’t want to become a fearful person. i like the way i move about the world. now i feel like i have to always be home before its dark, never walk alone even during the day, and dress completely covered. i have lived in, so many “murder capitols”, every major city in the us, with nothing like this ever happening to me. i always travel alone. i’ve walked around with a camera around my neck since i was 10 years old. i wear loud colors and patterns that clang against each other. i don’t want this dude to take me away from me.

i also don’t want to talk about it. i don’t want to have to tell anyone what happened. my friend iky was the first person i told, and i swore him to secrecy. i don’t know why. i didn’t want the family he lived with to think of me differently. as weak. or a victim. or as someone that somehow asked for this. but as i limped around the house. questions came. and i had to answer, ” i was robbed.” the more i said it the easier it became to say. and the further away i felt from the incident. i called my friend julia, and she told me what has become a refrain in my head, ” the only way to get past this is to go through.”

robbed in rio: parte dois

Sat, 30 Jul 2011 19:51:00 -0300

parte dois: and then…

the men are all talking at once asking me questions and recounting what they saw at the same time. how do you say robbed in portuguese? how do you say robbed in portuguese? my lip is busted, hands bruised, knees scraped. they are trying to figure out if i need to go to the hospital. no. i just want to go home. then it dawned on me that i had no money, no cards, i still had to WALK home. i no longer even have house keys. one guy,eduardo, decides to take me to a nearby party/nightclub area,lapa, where there are sure to be police. i limp through the crowds. he walks slowly beside me. i wont let him touch me. not even to use him as a cane. i am looking for the robber in the crowds. we find the police and they say since im not from rio there is nothing they can do until the morning when the precinct opens.

what?!!! have they never watched the first 24!

eduardo, walks me all the way home. tells me not to worry about dude coming back. he’s somewhere trying not to get caught. i finally make it home.

i can not sleep. i have to hold everything that happened in my head to tell the police in the morning. i concentrate on his face all night so i can remember him for the police. i picture him looking through the videos in my camera. listening to my ipod. laughing at my portuguese for beginners. loving my tupac. i picture him when he sees my Texas drivers license and discovers that i am not brazilian. why didn’t i put my ring back on after i washed my hands earlier that day? will he give my ring to a girl or will he try to sell it? how much is it all worth?

the next day, it’s time to go to the precinct and its the last place i want to be. i go and they tell me i have to go to leblon. its for tourists. they speak english there. a police car comes to pick me up. i didn’t bring my passport so the car takes me to my house to get it. the car has TOURIST POLICE written on it. im a little embarrassed to get out as it pulls up to my house.

two officers in their mid thirties are driving me. on the way to the leblon precinct, they begin to ask me questions about what happened. they seem more upset than i. he stole your purse? MERDA! your documents? PORRA! you fell? CARACA! it was as if they don’t work around crime everyday.

we get to the precinct. the police question the fact that i did not report the crime sooner. i told them what the two officers in lapa told me. i wish i would’ve gotten the names from their badges. then i have to look at sketches of suspects. my stomach turns. i try to match up the image i held in my head all night with one of the hundreds of sketches in front of me. only one even comes close. but not close enough for me to truthfully say its him. one of the officers asks me questions from behind his desk and inputs my answers into a computer. when we’re finished, he makes small talk as the pages print. how long have you been in rio? do you like the city? would you like to go out some time? what?!!!! you don’t have time to go out, you need to be looking for my stuff! is what i wanted to say, but no thanks is all i said.

leaving the precinct. back in the touristmobile, i did feel a little lighter. i know that i will probably never hear from these police again. that they could probably care less about a crime that will never make it to the pages of rio’s newspapers. but i did not stay in bed as much as i wanted to. i did not stay silent.

When you coming home??? LOL

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 23:00:41 -0300

LOL!!!I’m coming home soon and very soon!

robbed in rio: parte um

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 17:56:00 -0300

part um: so basically…

i was walking in my neighborhood. santa teresa. a communal section of town sequestered from the rest of the city on a mountain. i was on my

way home.

should i take a taxi, no too expensive and unnecessary. should i walk two streets over and take a bus, no it will let me off on a dark street. its safer for

me to just walk home in the opposite direction. i was walking in my safe, communal, artsy neighborhood on a route i’ve

taken at least once a week. yes, alone. yes, at night. i was walking uphill. he was walking down. he passed me. i got that chill you get when someone looks suspect. then i got the guilt you get from suspecting a young, black, dude looks suspect. i looked behind me. the street was empty.

about 30 seconds later he comes up from behind me. talking fast. fast slang portuguese. i can only make out words. not sentences. quero. casa. gostei. preta.

i walk faster. say nothing. he lounges for me i push. he starts to undo his pants. i more than scream. i become a siren. the sound just forces itself out of me. it’s not like other times when you tell your brain to scream on a roller coaster, or when you see a rat. this scream is your 9mm, your knife, your all you have to save yourself. it rattles him. he grabs my purse and runs away. i chase after him we both trip down the cobblestone hill. i fall. haviannas in hand, he is running away so fast he should be in brazil’s olympics. one man runs from his house to see what’s going on, a security guard walks over, another guy is coming from uphill. the three of them encircle me. ask me what happened. as i looked in the direction he fled and try to breathe. i can only make out words. not sentences. ele. tomou. me.

street gallery: bandit love!

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 13:41:00 -0300

santa teresa, rio de janeiro brazil

street gallery: com cristo

Wed, 15 Jun 2011 13:42:00 -0300

rio de janeiro, brazil

what i miss

Sun, 15 May 2011 13:39:00 -0300

(besides you)

11. a cell phone that has reception at least 30% of the time

12. the way black men walk in the states

13. ketchup made from tomatoes not tomato flavoring (being widely available)

14. a good mattress

15. coffee shops open 24 hours with free wifi

16. anything open 24 hours

17. good thrift stores

18. pandora

19. hulu

20. riding my bike

street gallery:pop art

Sat, 07 May 2011 13:40:00 -0300

centro, rio de janeiro, brazil

street gallery: artist at work

Sun, 01 May 2011 08:00:00 -0300

lapa, rio de janeiro, brazil

concrete jungle : formigas!

Sun, 01 May 2011 01:42:18 -0300

rio de janeiro, brazil

Centro? Rio de Janeiro, Brazil There is more samba in...

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 16:30:00 -0300

Centro? Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

There is more samba in meeting than in waiting
Samba has more evil than the wound
There is more samba in the port than in the candle
Samba has more forgiveness than the farewell
Samba has more in hands than in the eyes
Samba has more on the ground than on the moon
Samba has more on the working man
Samba has more the sound that comes from the street
Samba has more on the chest of those who cry
Samba has more in sorrow of the beholder
May the good samba have no place or hours
The heart out
Samba inadvertently

Come passing
Your experience
If everyone sambas
It would be so easy living

Chico Buarque

team people

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 14:36:00 -0300

if i were a reality tv show right now, i would be the one always crying.

travel does that to me. taken out of your usual sound stage, everything is amplified. it’s why people always return from trips saying “the people were so nice”.

you see things differently.

beauty can be found in everything in this glorious glorious world. but the unwarranted kindness of strangers, is more awe-inspiring than a thousand crystal seas to me. some people champion the environment, some animals, i’m a people person. even in the soot and murk of their darkest hour, i am rooting for people.

and then there are the times when people show up for me.

which brings us back to the crying. when you are somewhere alone and completely out of your element- you don’t know the area, the language, the customs [can you not wear red, can you not walk down a certain street, two kisses or one?]- misanthrope or not, you’re gonna need people.

and here in brasil, people have shown up in countless ways. there was the young guy from são paulo going to college in rio who, long story short, put me in a cab and paid for the cab and wouldn’t even give me his contact info so i could pay him back (this was like the second or third day i was here, when i was told not to walk around with a large amount of cash and spent my daily allowance leaving only bus fare and i found out the hard way that things didn’t run 24hrs like new york). and there are so many times when i haven’t even had to ask, someone walks by and hears my broken portuguese and asks if i speak english and offers to help translate…like the girl in the logo americas store who after witnessing me walk around looking like charlie chaplin mimicking holding an umbrella to the store clerks, helped me find an umbrella to purchase (and it rained that day). and my friend, who lives in a home on a hill in rio, but like many of us, is having trouble making ends meet. along with financial setbacks, she is having health difficulties, but when i needed a place to stay while i search for an apartment, she did not hesitate to offer. and has been such a generous host that i did not know of either of these issues until i pried it out of her. im so blessed for this experience.

the universe has my back. and all i can do is pay it forward.

xo,

p.s. ”the people were so nice” is probably my least favorite phrase in the english language—most of you already know that