Coat I Call Home

November 30, 2012


By: Magnolia

I belong inside the fold of your coat;

Familiar, it’s scented in mahogany, from the rack it’s been hugging all day.

But now it is I who hangs, clings, so sincere and devote.

From the second the sun yawns, I am a captive of the city,

Slipping down stairs, squeezing through doors, hoping for the clock to take pity.

Moving, shaking, hustling, yellow horns & green lights,

But hidden inside the crinkle where your ink is fast asleep, is where I find my might.

Nestled in like a babe in womb, I recoil and hook my ear against your doting chest;

And I am bolstered by the mellow thump of a familiar drum and the rolling waves released then compressed.

Buried I am, in reckless abandonment, sheltered and drawn in by the whispers of a meditative om.

Like the morning brew of a cracked coffee bean and the front door left ajar, at last, I am welcomed home.


Lets Go To Church, Ya Dig!

November 28, 2012

Church is not just a building, its wherever you can find the fuel to INSPIRE yourself TO CREATE, TO (insert E.T Phone Home Voice) BEeee GOOD, and to lovingly move with the Rhythm of Life.

Great, now that, that’s settled let’s try Sammy Davis Jr’s church today and see what it doess..

10 Commandments to Putting your Best Self Forward

All wrapped up in an itsi bitsi word

Thou must be & have……


courage; spunk; guts


desiring to help others; charitable


refinement; class


tenaciously resolute; persevering


high respect, as for worth, merit, noble, dignity, illustrious, or distinguished


the reason for which anything is done, created, or exists


the power or ability to return to the original form, position, etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity


agreement in action, opinion, feeling, etc; accord; order or congruity of parts to their whole or to one another


to delight to a high degree:to impart a magic quality or effect to;pleasant; delightful,charming; captivating

10. FAITH:

strong or unshakeable patient belief in something, esp. without proof or evidence; code of ethics, standards of merit, honesty or sincerity,loyalty

And… The Beat Goes ON….

Unrequited Exclamation

November 27, 2012

By: Magnolia

Oh virtuous eyes swamped in raw emotion,

how you have unraveled me.

From the moment your skin settled upon mine eyes,

I was undone.

The beginning of you left the end of me at a loss for motion.

And as I stood, and watched, there they were,

Attempting to rise from worn lips, these words.

Held between your lids was the melody of an un-played song;

Puncturing the very depth of me.

And in my mind,

bottled thoughts travel through my fingers and my

Tender wounds are wrapped in the grace of your soft skin.

For when you speak, you strum more than the basic cords of life,

You coil my heart and my impetuous hand hath no other place to exist, but within the arcs of your face and neck.

And as your mouth goes weak, my lips seal the freedom of your breath

And thy soft and bountiful words tumble off thy tongue and into mine speech.

How they slide in perfectly round shaped pear tones,

Whilst expanding my lungs and unhinging my bones.

Oh you unrequited exclamation

You are the breath beneath my words.

And the expansion of a folded heart.

Iron-Jawed Will

November 24, 2012

‘Some people will always tell you that what you are trying to accomplish is impossible; those people have no idea what they’re talking about,’ says Frosty Hesson, surf legend and first-time author of Making Mavericks.

As well as the book – co-authored by Frosty Hesson alongside Ian Spiegelman, Rick Hesson – a film titled Chasing Mavericks has just been released. It tells the life story of the surfing legend Frosty, played by Gerard Butler and his mentorship with Jay Moriarty, played by Johnny Weston, a then budding 12-year-old surfing novice who, like many surfers, planted their boards in the surf of Northern California’s’ Half Moon Bay, with an appetite for the towering waves of the notorious surf-spot ‘Mavericks’.

In 1990s, Jay approached Frosty to train him to surf one of the most behemoth waves on Earth, the legendary Mavericks surf break near his home in Santa Cruz. It was Jay’s audacity that propelled Frosty to mentor him. Through his coaching, not only was a friendship created but raw courage and life lessons such as the importance of not letting the fear of others affect one’s success, were breathed into the heart of Jay, who became notorious for being one of the youngest, at only 16 to brave the 40ft waves of Mavericks.

Since the young age of three Frosty, who was nicknamed that for his white as snow hair, was not only destined to do great things on land but also in the sea. It was growing up by the bay in San Francisco in the 1950’s that began Frosty’s connection with the ocean. ‘My parents were concerned because I had no fear of water.’

But it wasn’t just Frosty’s determination and loving relationship with water that made him a phenomenal surfer, but his ability from young to observe the world and to take lessons from every opportunity and every aspect of wonderment that he came across. He overcame the hardships of an at times tumultuous childhood burdened with financial troubles and riddled with a hard-drinking father and a chronically ill mother.

Despite the adversities, the welcoming nature to others his parents created in the home along with his passion to help others, enriched his life and pushed him forwards towards a life spent surfing on the beach, chilling in his van and mentoring others in the value of not only being great surfers but great purpose-filled people who believing that anything and everything is possible.

‘No one can live out someone else’s vision; it had to come from within you,’ he says in his book. He goes on to explain where the basis of his attitude about life came from by telling the story of the summer his parents took him and his siblings to the Mohave Desert where they came across an abandoned mining town from the 1800’s called Calico. In that ghost town one of the miners had built a house out of brown, green and clear wine bottles and mortar. Upon walking in, Frosty describes the impression it had on him to see the majesty that someone could build up from what others may have considered disposable. ‘It was just four walls and a brownish-gray weathered door, the grain raised from all the moisture being sucked from the wood by the heat, but when I stood staring through those walls long enough, they became the stained glass window of a church, and they became a kaleidoscope.’ It was in this moment that Frosty developed an understanding that life is all about which angle you look at it from saying, ‘Just because you don’t see what everybody sees it doesn’t invalidate your view.’

It was at Pillar Point Harbor in Half Moon Bay, California on December 19th, 1994 where Jay Moriarty paddled out to meet a 40fth wave, the biggest wave of the morning. Upon rising to his feet, the wind pushed his surfboard into the air and dropped him down five stories into the ocean which sucked him 40 feet underwater and while many thought he was dead, he walked away becoming an iconic surf star. Sadly, Jay’s life was cut short at the tender age of 21, when he drowned while free diving.

While Frosty may appear as a superhero, with a book and a film about himself and his experiences, at the end of the day, he is just a kind-hearted fellow human who stands as a role model for the enduring spirit and willingness to give, in order see others shine with great purpose.

For Poetic inspiration:

I don’t really formally celebrate thanksgiving due to historical inaccuracies. Well, there’s that and the whole Black Friday thing;  A time dedicated to the gluttony of consumerism and the emptying of what the true holiday spirit should really be about. But I will say, if the date has become about a bunch of people spending their time to be with the ones they love & commit their thoughts to being thankful, than, that in itself, is something to celebrate. You always get more of what you want and need in life when you are in a constant mode of appreciation, not just one day but every day. So whether you have a lot, a little, or have someone or are alone, find something, anything to be thankful for. Consistency of thought as it regards to recognizing what I have is what I aim for.  So here’s a list of 24 things  I’m thankful for, in no particular order.

1. Mis Padres y mi Familia

2. Mis Amigos



3.  YOU- To everyone who comes to my blog, reads and clicks. I really appreciate it.

4. For every day I wake to see the sun come up, I know I have purpose and that my work here is not done. And yes I do this Shirly song and dance EVERY MORNING hahah

5. Hot Coffee or Cocoa & writing I am about to move the world through words.

6. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying so hard towards the balanced manifesting of my dreams that I am grateful for the moments when I know that I’ve done enough.

7. Jellyfish. Why? I don’t know, just because they’re beautiful and they artistically inspire me and they are strange creatures. For instance, Jellyfish have been around since before the dinosaurs existed, the biggest jellyfish ever found had a diameter of 8 feet and its tentacles were as long as half the length of a football field, and the growth of a jelly fish NEVER stops, and they are 95% water, and some types, up to 98%.

8. The woods

Even the snowy kind

9. When I meet someone that I feel comfortable enough to reveal all of myself ..and I don’t regret it later 🙂

10. When I feel I’ve tried everything, there’s no greater feeling than infinite possibilities re-shaping itself in a way that I can see and embrace. A shift towards an enlightened perspective that helps me move forward, I am always grateful for.

11. The color red- Since I was a kid it’s never failed to make me happy! Fall, lips, paint, dresses, you name it, if I was born in the form of color it would most definitely be red.

12. Signs that lift and encourage me, especially when I need it the most.

13.  Being in the middle of a busy day and finding the time to lie down, look up and day dream.

14. Neo-Classical Interior Design

15. Handwritten letters & Typewriters

16.  When something I’ve been working for comes my way or when something really lovely happens and I get butterflies in my tummy. Or sometimes it can be just those little wonderful moments where hope presents itself in the form of a film, art, admirable recognition from people you respect or even from a stranger. Or sometimes all it takes is a simple song from jazz crooners like Sam Cooke, Shirley Bassey, Ottis Redding, Louie Armstrong, Julie London, Nina Simone, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald or Harry Connick Jr. (who I want to sing at my wedding) that make me feel all excited and hopeful about life.

16. Indian Sari’s

17. Rebellious dogs haha

18. The stillness of the night right before I nod off.

19. Lace & Detailed Embroidery

 Amazingggg BerqclE!

20. The Audrey Tautou CoCo Channel Commercial and the Levi Commercials because they inspire me in every way.

21. Oversized sweaters, long or short skirts w/ pockets, long socks, hats and headbands!


22.Birds nests

23. Imagination & Dreams

24. FIlm Film Film! From as long as I can remember I always knew that film was a huge vehicle in which my energy is meant to travel. I’m to do great things in film.


The Dancing Beasts Illusions

November 21, 2012

By: Magnolia Lafleur

She wanted to sink into the sweet nectar pulsating inside the belly of bloomed flowers,

unreachable in a towering tree.


Her fluttered hope, in need of a soberly affirming place of rest.

After years of arduous labor, she twirled into a perched position,

calling upon the celestial spaces to reveal its power.


She felt it encircling yet eluding her’;

mystical dreams wrapped inside the capricious fold of a Cheshire Cat grin


She closed her eyes and imagined herself as a dulcet beast,

clothed in regality & seated at the right hand of calmness;

With great longing for the parallel universes to tangle and resurrect her

But with each moment of ascension her eyes were met by the plummeting trunks of helpless trees

and the abandoned cry of rusted desperation.

Unmoving energy arose the tumultuous beast inside.

Breathing forth in a paroxysm of rage; the battle to self-devour had begun.

The internal workings of a beast not put to rest dangerously desiring to be heard, spilled over.

And where screaming met her lips an eye appeared,

silencing vexation and illuminating three actualities:

The first,

 a street lined with the paradox of smog engulfed by a procession of cherry blossom trees.

The second,

an Egyptian proverb spelled in the ink of curled white clouds settled upon a black night.

And finally, with no origin or end,

 a dancing rainbow, driven by madness and awash in playfull delight.

Defeated by visions, she slept.

And as she dreamt, the trees overhead, in a rapturous intercourse, swallowed her.

Freed with joyful appreciation, she surrendered

 and piece, by piece, by peace, she floated away.


Only to be awakened by the serene movement of wind and gravity.


Metamorphosed this time, not as a fearful beast but as a pendant in the sky, non-yielding to the stars, she bore the world.

And in the belly of her arms, the glowing earth, basking in the sweet nectar of her sovereignty to create,  slept in sedate watchfulness.


 The Dancing Beasts Illusions


She wanted to sink into the sweet nectar pulsating inside the belly of bloomed flowers,

unreachable in a towering tree.

Her fluttered hope, in need of a soberly affirming place of rest.

After years of arduous labor, she twirled into a perched position, calling upon the celestial spaces to reveal its power.

She felt it encircling yet eluding her, mystical dreams wrapped inside the capricious fold of a Cheshire Cat grin.

She closed her eyes and imagined herself as a dulcet beast, clothed in regality & seated at the right hand of calmness;

With great longing for the parallel universes to tangle and resurrect her.

But with each moment of ascension her eyes were met by the plummeting trunks of helpless trees and the abandoned cry of rusted desperation.

Unmoving energy arose the tumultuous beast inside.

Breathing forth in a paroxysm of rage; the battle to self-devour had begun.

The internal workings of a beast not put to rest, dangerously desiring to be heard, spilled over;

And where screaming met her lips an eye appeared, silencing vexation and illuminating three actualities:

The first, a street lined with the paradox of smog engulfed by a procession of cherry blossom trees.

The second, an Egyptian proverb spelled in the ink of curled white clouds settled upon a black night

And finally, with no origin or end, a dancing rainbow, driven by madness and awash in playful delight.

Defeated by visions, she slept.

And as she dreamt, the trees overhead, in a rapturous intercourse, swallowed her.

Freed with joyful appreciation, she surrendered and piece by piece by piece, she floated away.

Only to be awakened by the serene movement of wind and gravity.

Metamorphosed, this time, not as a fearful beast but as a pendant in the sky, non-yielding to the stars, she bore the world.

And in the belly of her arms, the glowing earth, basking in the sweet nectar of her sovereignty to create,  slept in sedate watchfulness.


Emotive Paint & Hidden Words

November 12, 2012

Some of the world’s greatest thinkers used quill pens to ink their ideals and imbue society with new perspectives while other greats prefer the paint and brush as their tool.  Alexandra Grant is one such artist who utilizes the asthetic beauty of paint to relay philosophical statements, captivate the eye and stimulate society to ask why?

Alexandra Grant, a Los Angeles based collaborative artist, uses the world as her muse and language as her galvanizing spring towards creating the most awe inspiring sculptures, paintings, drawings and videos. ‘I have ideas I feel should be expressed in paint. I have a voice and it’s about putting feeling into things,’ she explains. From books, artist, poetry, quiet or passionate people, space, the cactus garden at Huntington Gardens, fashion photography on glossy magazines to simply sitting at a dinner table with family, friends, good food and wine, Grants inspiration is brought about from a lucid curiosity that spawned from childhood.
Born in Fairview, Ohio and raised in Mexico City and France, Grant’s childhood was colored with visits to the museums and with Arts & Crafts objects her parents collected on trips.

Graduating in 1995 from Swarthmore College with a BA in History and Studio Art and from California College of the Arts in 2000 with an MFA in Drawing and Painting, Grant has had her works displayed in some of the biggest galleries all over the world including Los Angeles County Museum of Arts (LACMA) and Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles (MOCA). Some of her past collaborations include Michael Joyce, the author of the first hypertext fiction, andOde to Happiness, a book written by first time author Keanu Reeves.

Aside from being an avid recycler and living a sustainable lifestyle, Grant uses recycled art products and is a philanthropic artist who works in collaboration with the non-profit Watts House Project, an artists driven neighborhood redevelopment enterprise. She was the Founding Board Chair of the organization and with the help of architects Robert Sheinberg and Arnold Swanborn created ‘The Love House,’ the Cerant family home on 107th Street, which dons a large sculpture of the word ‘love.’ Funds for the project have also been raised by the sale of her ‘Love’ rings andnecklace.

Grants current projects include art pieces that were inspired by Century of the Self, a documentary about Edward Bernays, Sigmund Freud’s nephew, who was the first psychoanalyst to apply his uncles work in the field of public relations in order to create what we now call commercials and advertisements. Her work delves into the roots of consumerism and superficiality and explores how we view ourselves. Grant is a firm believer in getting in touch with the self and not allowing or succumbing to the projections or stereotypes of the world, whatever that may be, she explains, ‘I think a person should always be themselves. An intellectual doesn’t have to look intellectual. It’s about feeling things and about making the world inside and outside of you equal. It’s important to let what’s inside of you come out.’ These works will be featured in collaboration with LAXART and will be featured at an exhibition in 2013 at University of Sothern California Fisher Museum.

Forêt Intérieure (InteriorForest) another project debuting April through June 2013 at the 18th Street Arts Center in Santa Monica, consists of a collaboration with Hélène Cixous, a Paris based writer and philosopher on her book Philippines which deals with several themes including the relationships of north and south, dreaming and reality, telepathy and empathy, colony and colonizer, woman and man, and child and adult.

While she keeps a busy schedule, upon meeting her, Grant does not come across as someone that is embarking on so many collaborative artistic feats bent on inspiring and elucidating the heart and mind. Rather she maintained an elegant yet childlike resilience that, like her art, was succinct and palpable in all its serene pleasantries.

All The World’s A Stage

November 4, 2012


By: Magnolia

He stood behind the floor lengthened curtain that was draped in the smugness of devoured blood

His hand vivid with trembles, his eyes swallowing the crowd,

Whilst the crowd sat ready to swallow him.

Sweat began a slothful waltz across his brow and below his nose,

And dread and tears formed the shape of conniving silver pointed at his will.

Powerless, hand to breast, he fell to knee.

He tried to think, to feel, to sip a pinch of air,

When suddenly in the belly of fearful equivocation,

The whispers of Athena plagued his heart and erected his spirit.

Truth cavorted with realization, awakening him to the actuality of his pain

It was organized internal bleeding that was the cause,

The teething birth pains of greatness decided upon a superior path too sizable for limited veins.

So amid the watchful muzzled silence he burst on to center stage

Possessed by the clairvoyant kiss of Shakespeare he drew his voice and slashed the carotid arteries of the crowd,

And infused their jugulars with the life force of God.

And as he resurrected he saw himself moving above, below and through them;

For desperation had not a place to travel but to the edge of his limbs and to the forefront of their hearts.

A performance, that shattered glass, made clouds weep and brought the dresses to their feet.

A clamorous crowd filled with the running black eyes of weeping women oblivious to their smeared faces;

He took a bow, walked off stage and was filled in all the empty places.
Amazing image from Artist Ipalbus

When You Are Old

November 2, 2012

By: William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Invisible Maestro

November 1, 2012

It pecked upon the twigs sloshed into a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.

Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;

Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting  it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.

And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.

Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.

Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.

Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;

And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.

Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?

So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.

And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;

In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will  collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.

By: Magnolia