H.S.L.

I mildly understand the comfort that is home. What I mean by that is, I've never quite pinpointed where that coveted location stands for me. A little town in Florida comes closest to the word's dictionary definition. There, the Traveler's Palms are an exuberant green, and every other thing that touches the ground is sunshine. I like to soak my feet in that big tub of Atlantic water, let the breeze weave its oceanic magic into my hair, and relieve the symptoms of a sometimes suffocating city life.

It's what I leave with each time that feels the most like home: the smell of a sunset I can't find anywhere else in the world, that gentle feeling in my palm, like a friend just squeezed my hand.

It is my most familiar feeling: as I drive off, or fly away, I am certain that I will return.

olb.

key west: host to my most favorite ghost

In Key West, the sun is a blaze of fire burning coal into the teeth of the locals, and flames into the hearts of the sailors. Beautiful fairy-like boys ride around taxi-like bicycles, wanting to tote around lobster-like faces of people from lands where the sun is not a blaze of fire, but a puddle of melted ice.


Their fluttering eyes linger on me like the soft wings of butterflies, as I walk faster and faster to the heart of Duval. In the streets, there are signs for ice cream made by tired, burning hands and cigars are hanging off tattered lips, as they puff the smoke of this forgotten tropical paradise into faltering pink skies.


The old men all look like Hemingway- but that is probably because they hear his ghost sometimes, creaking through their kitchens as they snack at a voracious pace on key-lime pie (for fear that he will ask for a slice.) If I had a lock of sorts, hanging on the door to my regrets, Ernest knows, I too would choose this Key to click it open.

Down at Mile Zero, the whole US of Fucking A breathes down my young and fragile neck. The sun is a blaze of fire again, but somewhere far away from here- we feel the last ray of life before all turns black and full of ghastly possibilities.

Jack and his four seagulls take a nap, their back turned to the spectacle- the blaze of fire having burnt out all remnants of their Key West illusions long ago. But not I.

I stand there for a while perplexed, with what some would call a half-crescent rising to my lips; wondering: Why couldn't I write things in a more simple form?
Perhaps like Hemingway when he described a fish or bull.
The sun drowns somewhere below our feet and I leave this non-existing mile, this door, this Key to nowhere- I cannot escape the fact that I am more complex than it will ever be.

Ever Ever Land?

I ventured to The Everglades last month- my mother, a bottle of water and my trusted camera in hand.

The Everglades are a very endangered ecosystem, reinforcing their sad ironic name which begs to differ. 50 miles from Miami, you could never have thought yourself so far from the famed and glinting U.S. city. In fact, I couldn't stop getting that strange feeling I got around 10 years ago, sitting on my father's lap in a roofless Defender, as we strode through South African savannas and observed sleeping lions under the twilight. Just like then, my stomach was in a fluttering frenzy, prompting me to think: There is something too magical about this place. One day it will be gone. From the alligators all belly down, those sleepy dinosaur-like creatures, to the mangroves eating at the ground with their terrific roots- I can't possibly believe that my children may never gaze at what I did on that warm September day.

Considering this is our own bloody mess once again; I'm not asking, but just sayin': try and get involved with The Everglades Restoration Plan or The Everglades Foundation. There are simple things you can do, like writing a short letter, that may help to save some of this ecosystem.

South Florida may not be your backyard, not even a place you have fancied visiting, but there will come a time in your life where you'll daydream about The amazing Everglades, and wonder why you have never seen an Anhinga, a blue egret or a smiling alligator - older than the entire history of man - guarding a tiny, scaled khaki thing by his side. And if The Everglades are no longer there to welcome you, if we've managed to fully drain and discard of them (like we have so many other natural habitats) ; you will feel a jab of regret- I can promise you that.

OLB

i want to be a cubist when i grow up

Mini Cooper was kind enough to send me a funky little publication named The Mini International, as an official Thanks! to my leasing one of their speedy toy-looking automobiles.

The magazine featured one of the best architectural concepts I have seen all year: Fincube.

Fincube is my kind of place: small, cozy but sophisticated. Not to mention, it has a slight eco-Star Wars-chic feel about it, which tickles my fancy just fine. (Star Wars = a very guilty pleasure of mine. may the force be with me.)

Perched above a vineyard, forest or the shoreline of your most favorite beach, Fincube fits all of your nomadic needs.

Still a concept, but coming soon, the sample house is in South Tyrol, Italy- which looks like a little haven in itself. I might have to hop over that way this Spring. Because, after thoroughly exploring the site, I confess I've fallen in love...

And to my delight, it's not with a square. But a cube.



OLB

BOO!

Miami Horror swept into, (dun dun dun) Miami, last Wednesday night and proved that, actually, the band has absolutely no beef with the city. Benjamin Plant, keyboardist and Australian mastermind behind the funky electro band, likes the USA ahellofalot, and colorful, hot Miami is no exception- which became quite clear when the skinny Melbourne-based foursome took up the stage at LIV.


It was a good night, filled with drunken falls on slippery glittering floors, Melbourne club bashing, and a Rome-bought red jumpsuit worn by yours truly.

When the Fountainbleau's valet pulled up A.'s green mustang at 5 in the morning, we weren't sure what was more Horrific: my 9 AM class, or her 12 PM job interview.



OLB